


Blood Spell

by TheBlemishesMakeHerBeautiful (LegosInTheVents)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-21 11:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 43,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11356857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegosInTheVents/pseuds/TheBlemishesMakeHerBeautiful
Summary: Mysterious deaths are occurring in the small town of Norris, Tennessee, and the residents are whispering about the Bledsoe Curse. But no one can tell Sam and Dean what the curse is or where it came from. And no one can explain what connection the deaths have to the old log cabin or the strange object that they find there.This story is set during Season 12 between Episode 6 Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox and Episode 7 Rock Never Dies.





	1. The Cabin

Norris, Tennessee 2016

The cabin had to be nearly a hundred years old. The logs that formed the walls were weathered to a soft gray, and the chinking between the wood was broken and missing in numerous places. The windows were small, and each was divided into six smaller panes of glass. All but two of the panes were busted or missing completely, and the two remaining had cracks spider-webbing across them. Nearby, a dilapidated barn was barely managing to hold itself together, and there was evidence of other outbuildings that must have once been part of the little homestead, now fallen to rubble or dismantled. Behind the cabin was a small plot marked out with stakes and a large pole which had probably held a scarecrow at some time in the past. A garden, no doubt, that had supplied the inhabitants with fresh food and provided grain for the livestock. Now, the surrounding woods were encroaching on the cleared land, the beaten-back trees and underbrush slowly creeping closer and closer to the cabin – returning to claim what had once been theirs.

Sam and Dean walked the area cautiously. The ground was rough and uneven, and neither of them relished the idea of stepping on a rusty tool or twisting an ankle in a hole. A full moon gave some welcome illumination, but it also seemed to make the shadows darker by comparison. Their flashlight beams wandered over the ruined buildings, highlighted stray and abandoned items – a trowel, a broken jug, a coil of rope – and occasionally caught tiny pinpricks of reflection as nocturnal creatures were caught unawares by the roaming lights.

“Just please don’t be a skunk…” Dean mumbled under his breath. One startled skunk encounter was enough for a lifetime.

“Hey, Sam, remember the skunk?” He whispered loudly to his brother.

Sam was running his flashlight beam over the back of the cabin, the light shining through the missing chinks, and he grimaced when Dean asked the question, jerking back instinctively from the clumps of grass growing along the cabin’s stone foundation.

“How am I going to forget that, dude?” He hissed in a quieter whisper. “I have never vomited so…hard.” It was a rather inadequate statement, but Sam couldn’t come up with any better way to describe the awfulness of being sprayed. He had certainly never forgotten the immediate pain in his eyes and nose and throat, or the violent reaction of his stomach.

Dean was chuckling to himself – “wouldn’t even let us in the car, made us walk five miles back to the motel” – Sam heard him saying. There was nothing Dean enjoyed more than an old “war story”, especially one involving their deceased father. Sam just sighed and shook his head.

“Let’s go in,” he said, nodding towards the front of the cabin. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything out here.” Dean sobered quickly and jerked his chin up in agreement. He led the way back to the entrance, and they climbed onto the small, rickety front stoop of the cabin. As they stepped inside, Dean swept his flashlight beam around.

The entire cabin was one open room. The floors groaned as Sam and Dean walked across them. A musty scent hung in the air – a mixture of dust, weathered wood, and general disuse. A large, crumbling stone fireplace occupied much of the left-hand wall, many of the stones looking as though they were held in place by force of habit. A few wooden shelves still hung haphazardly on the back wall, and a small worktable stood next to the fireplace. Three chairs stood or lay at various points in the room, two of them with broken legs and all with gaping holes in the cane seats. There was little else left – the room had clearly been picked clean of anything usable. There was nothing on the walls either, no signs or symbols, no evidence of supernatural activity of any kind.

Then the light caught something in the far right-hand corner. It was a ladder built directly into the wall. Sam shone his flashlight over Dean’s head, towards the ceiling. Above the ladder, a small opening was visible, barely two feet on each side. Apparently, the little cabin had a loft. The ceiling looked intact, which meant that the floor of the loft should be intact.

They walked over and Dean tugged on the boards that made up the ladder. All of them wobbled a little but seemed to be sturdy enough. He looked over at Sam and shrugged, raising his eyebrows in a way that plainly asked who was going first. Sam shrugged, too, and then nodded in a resigned way. He tucked the end of his flashlight under his arm and held out his hands in the international sign for Rock-Paper-Scissors. Dean gave him a look of disgust, but placed the end of his flashlight in his mouth and held his hands out. Three seconds later, he could practically feel Sam smirking behind him as he started his climb, but he chose to ignore it. _Son of a bitch…I hate that damn game_ …

Dean quickly hoisted himself through the small opening in the ceiling. Where it came out at the corner of the cabin, he was forced to crouch to avoid the roof. He turned to survey the room just as his brother’s head popped up through the floor. As Sam pulled himself into the loft also, Dean’s flashlight shone around the room. The loft, like the room below, had no walls dividing it. The floorboards groaned even louder than the main level floor, causing both of them to wince a little. There was no reason to expect that they would be overheard by anyone, but the noise was still jarring in the silence of the night.

“What’s that?” Sam asked as the light revealed some filthy material hanging from the ceiling. On closer inspection, they could see that it must have once been a quilt. It hung now in ragged shreds, the material moth-eaten and spattered with bird droppings. At least, Sam hoped they were bird droppings. He quickly shone his light upward to look for bats, while mentally acknowledging that, if there were any bats in the loft, his head would have probably already found them. Thankfully, the roof was clear of all but spider webs.

“I guess that was somebody’s way of making two rooms,” Dean said. He could see now that the tattered quilt had been draped over a piece of rope that stretched from one side of the sloping roof to the other. As he pushed past the bedraggled hanging to the far side of the loft, his light shone on the only piece of furniture. It was a wooden bedframe, low to the ground, still strung with sagging ropes that had once held a mattress. It was shoved into the far corner of the loft. Sam walked closer to the wooden structure. Dean continued to sweep his flashlight beam around the room, glancing down occasionally at his EMF meter. It hadn’t budged or offered a peep throughout their inspection of the property.

“Look at this,” Sam said, shining his flashlight along the inside edges of the bedframe. “It’s scorched, like it’s been on fire at some time – or like the mattress was on fire.” He turned to look quizzically at Dean, but Dean just shrugged.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean answered the unspoken question. “But I’ll tell you what, I’m not seeing anything that says demon or ghost or anything in our wheelhouse.”

Sam wasn’t really listening. His attention had been caught by something he had spotted behind the bed. He stepped gingerly over the side of the bedframe, placing his feet between the ropes, and crouched to pull the object from the very corner of the loft, where it had been wedged in behind the leg of the bed. It was a crucifix, small and wooden and oddly colored. Sam held it up so that Dean’s flashlight illuminated it. They could see that it was elaborately carved, symbols etched over it in fine detail even though it was no more than four inches long. A thin ribbon was threaded through the bottom of the carving, so that when the object was held up the crucifix would be upside down  
.  
“I think that weird color is blood,” Sam said.

“Well, I guess I stand corrected then, don’t I?” Dean replied. He reached over and took the crucifix, examining it closely. He grimaced. “I think you’re right about the blood. You see anything else?”

Sam gave the bedframe and the entire area a thorough look but found nothing else of interest. He shook his head. Dean slipped the crucifix into his jacket pocket, and he and Sam headed back to the ladder. The best thing now would be to get back to the motel and examine the object in good light.

“I’m guessing that someone used…” Sam was saying as he followed Dean to the main floor again. His words were cut off abruptly as he turned to address his brother only to find him standing with his hands held in the air.

“You too, Hoss,” the stranger standing in the cabin entrance instructed. He jerked the barrel of his shotgun upward to indicate what he expected of Sam. When both Dean and Sam were standing with their arms raised, the man with the shotgun nodded to himself.

“Now,” he said, “I reckon you boys ought to explain what you’re doin’ here.”


	2. The Beginning

Norris, Tennessee 1924

The cabin was perfect, if he did say so himself. The log planks were thick and sturdy, and there were windows in two of the walls. The windows even had real glass panes. The layout of the homestead was perfect, too, with the barn just the right distance from the cabin. Surveying the area, Jonas Bledsoe could understand where the phrase “bustin’ with pride” had come from. He could feel his chest expanding to hold the satisfaction inside him. In general, he was not a prideful man. He had been raised to do a job well, simply because it was the way to do things, and to be wary of praise or glory. But Jonas did make an exception for Ellie.

When Ellie told him the barn was just exactly the size they needed, or that the springhouse was “darling” and just right, Jonas stood a little bit taller and worked a little bit harder. Now, having completed the cabin, the last building to be finished, Jonas admitted to himself that he had never worked so hard on anything in his young life. Not that it had been an easy life to begin with.

Jonas was the oldest of the nine Bledsoe children. From the ages of seven to twelve, on most days during the winter, he had walked the two miles from their cabin, across Metcalf Ridge, to the building that served as the community center, to attend school. He had learned to read and write and do sums, and then his education had been deemed sufficient. After that, Jonas had worked full time with his father managing the family crops and livestock.

One Sunday, soon after he turned sixteen, he had looked across the church aisle and seen a beautiful young girl right where skinny little Ellie Caughron always sat with her family. Jonas had been shocked to realize that the lovely young lady was in fact Ellie, and even more shocked at how desperately important it suddenly became for her to notice him. The noticing phase had taken several long months, with Jonas racking his brain to devise a scheme worthy of garnering her attention, while every ounce of Ellie’s attention had been consumed with wondering why Jonas Bledsoe never noticed her.

Eventually, their mothers had taken the situation in hand. Jonas had been sent to the Caughron home to deliver a sack of sugar that Mrs. Caughron needed immediately – _the other big kids are all busy right now, and I don’t trust those young’uns to tote a whole sack of sugar_ – and found, to his delight and embarrassment, that Ellie was the only person home. Meanwhile, Ellie had been rather grumpily washing dishes _– me and your sisters are takin’ this food to Widow Barnes, and I have to start on our supper right soon as we get back, so these dishes got to be washed up_ – when she had been thrilled to have Jonas Bledsoe show up unexpectedly at the door. As Jonas explained awkwardly why he had come to the Caughron home, Ellie saw the pink rising in his sun-browned cheeks and had a flash of intuition. Maybe Jonas liked her a little bit? She gathered her courage up and spoke with a teasing smile.

“You didn’t have to steal a sack of your momma’s sugar for an excuse to come see me, Jonas. You could have just picked wildflowers.”

For the briefest moment, Jonas just looked at her, completely gobsmacked. Then he rallied.

“I would have stolen ten sacks of sugar to get to see you, Ellie,” he said. “But next time I’ll bring flowers.” And then he winked at her.

After that, there was no separating them.

Not that everyone had been happy about the young couple. Bill Caughron, Ellie’s father, hadn’t been at all sure that he wanted his little girl to marry one of them Bledsoe boys – they weren’t much ‘count, and their uncle was known to cheat at cards. And Everett Bledsoe, Jonas’ father, had been concerned about his son marrying up with those Caughrons – everyone knew they had crazy in the family. But young love, and persistent mothers, had overruled the objections. So planning was begun for the eventual marriage of Jonas and Ellie.

Many discussions and negotiations later, it was settled that Ellie’s family would contribute a cow, two piglets, and several chickens to the household. The Bledsoe family would contribute a few acres of already cleared land to build a small homestead. In exchange, Jonas would continue to help out with the family farm for the first several years of his marriage. After that time, he would have the option of continuing to work for his father to acquire more land.

And so, Jonas had begun the hardest working two years of his life – for his father during the day, and on his future home in any spare moments. The barn and the cabin were raised with the combined efforts of the community, but Jonas did most of the finishing work himself. He built a table and a bed and workbenches and chairs, and traded several pounds of venison to Martha Ogle in exchange for having her expertly weave the cane seats for the chairs.

Meanwhile, Ellie pieced quilts which the church women helped her complete, knit endless amounts of towels and dishcloths, and sewed curtains for the cabin windows. Jonas had promised her real glass windows.

In fact, Jonas had just finished putting the windows in, and he stood there now surveying his work and anticipating Ellie’s pleasure when she got to hang her blue gingham curtains. The very next Saturday the community was holding a “pounding” for the couple – so called because they would receive gifts of a pound of coffee, a pound of sugar, a pound of flour, and so on, until their pantry was stocked. And then, on Sunday, they would be married. All of their work and all of their dreams were finally coming together.


	3. The Bledsoe Curse

Norris, Tennessee 2016

 

“Sir, I assure you, we don’t mean any harm,” Sam began. “We’re…” Dean’s voice cut across Sam’s words.

“We’re paranormal investigators, sir,” Dean said, with as much false bravado as he could muster. “We’ve heard of this cabin as a place that we should definitely check out – you know, the Bledsoe curse?” Sam let Dean talk and tried not to look too surprised at what he said.

The man narrowed his eyes at them but didn’t say anything. He also didn’t lower his shotgun. He was a couple of inches shorter than Dean but broader and sturdy looking. They guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-sixties with gray hair and work-worn hands.

“We’re not here to cause any trouble,” Dean continued. “I’m Dean, this is my brother Sam.”

“Where ya’ll from?” the man barked.

“We’re from Kansas,” Dean answered, “but we travel all over checking out places we hear about.”

“Kansas, huh? You’re telling me you’ve heard about the Bledsoe place all the way out to Kansas?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sam chimed in. “It’s pretty well known in the paranormal community.” He felt like an idiot and had a sudden flashback to the Ghostfacers, the “paranormal investigators” they had run into a couple of times over the years. _What the hell is Dean doing?_

“So what exactly are ya’ll here lookin’ for?”

“Well, we don’t really know. But we’re sure we’ll be able to detect anything that’s here,” Dean said, pride in his fake job skills evident in his voice. He waved his hands a bit. “Would you mind if we put our hands down now?”

For a moment the man didn’t respond, and Dean and Sam both began mentally calculating the best way to disarm him without injuring him. Then he slowly lowered his shotgun. Dean and Sam both lowered their arms.

“Thank you, uh…” Dean paused, indicating that he didn’t know how to address the stranger.

“Jim,” the man answered the unspoken question. “Name’s Jim Ogle.”

“Nice to meet you, Jim,” Dean reached out his hand first, and then Sam also shook the man’s hand. “I’m sorry if we’ve caused you too much trouble. We didn’t think we’d be disturbing anybody this time of night.”

“Well, I make it my job to make sure we don’t get vandals and troublemakers up here. This place gets some visitors sometimes on account of the stories.” Mr. Ogle stopped and looked shrewdly at Sam and Dean. “But I reckon you two already know that.”

“We did know that,” Sam said. “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Ogle.”

The man looked at the Winchesters steadily for several long moments.

“Come on,” he said. “I reckon you two ought to come on up to the house.”

 

********************

 

“Why the hell did you tell him we were ‘paranormal investigators’?” Sam asked the question as soon as he and Dean were in the Impala. They were following Mr. Ogle back up the little gravel road which led down to the Bledsoe property. “I felt like an idiot.”

“Then I guess you were doing it right, huh?” Dean responded with a grin. When Sam continued to frown, he went on. “It was just a split second decision, okay? I got a feeling this guy was going to be less spooked by two “ghost hunters” than he would be by some kind of authority figure.”

Sam considered Dean’s logic. He could be right. Sometimes people were more comfortable talking to someone they thought of as a bit of a kook.

“Plus,” Dean added, “he looked like he was more likely to shoot a couple of nosy Feds than a couple of harmless idiots.”

“I hope you’re right. We’re probably going to have to talk to other people, too, you know.”

“Yeah, well roll with it for now, Sammy.” Dean was following Mr. Ogle as he turned into a narrow driveway leading up to a small house. “We can change it later if we have to.”

Inside the home, they were greeted by a very perturbed looking woman. Mrs. Ogle, Sam and Dean presumed, was standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen wearing a robe and a very disgruntled expression. Her arms were crossed belligerently in front of her, giving her five-foot-nothing frame the appearance of an irate pug.

“Well who’s this then?” she snapped at Mr. Ogle as soon as they entered. Before Mr. Ogle could reply, Dean jumped in.

“You must be Mrs. Ogle,” he said, thrusting his hand out again in his best imitation of a man who thoroughly delighted in meeting strangers and telling them about his job. “I’m Dean, this is my brother Sam. We’re paranormal investigators. Mr. Ogle here just found us checking out the Bledsoe place.”

Mrs. Ogle blinked at him, turned to blink at Sam, and then slowly unfolded her arms and shook Dean’s hand. He smiled warmly at her, but Sam just nodded slightly. If they were going to play these ridiculous roles, he decided that he was going to play the serious and thoughtful skeptic of the duo.

“Told you I heard a car goin’ down the road.” Mr. Ogle had put his shotgun away in the closet and come to stand next to his wife who looked somewhat bewildered at the unlikely strangers her husband had dragged home. “Found these two in the Bledsoe cabin. Said they wanted to check out the curse. I decided they oughta know what they’re gettin’ into.” Mrs. Ogle’s brow furrowed in concern.

“My name’s Anne,” she said. “I can tell you right now, that place is nothin’ but trouble that ya’ll best stay away from.”

“Trouble is sort of what we’re about, Mrs. Ogle. We’d really like to hear about the Bledsoe curse.” Sam said. Dean, in his chosen role of over-enthusiastic investigator, had plastered a giddy look on his face. Mrs. Ogle looked to her husband who gave her a small nod. She sighed deeply and then seemed to come to a decision.

“Why don’t ya’ll have a seat? I’ll make us some coffee,” she said. She retreated into the kitchen while Mr. Ogle indicated the couch in the cramped living room. The small room was fairly neat but overly crowded with a coffee table, couch, chairs, child-sized table strewn with papers and crayons, television, and overfilled toy box. Dean and Sam sat, Dean pushing aside a few stuffed animals that had been arrayed on the couch as though watching the television, and Mr. Ogle joined them in a recliner that had obviously seen a lot of use.

“My wife’s not real fond of discussing the Bledsoe place,” Mr. Ogle said. “She gets real upset by it since it’s…so close to home.” Sam and Dean both noticed his slight hesitation.

“Well, we’d really like to know anything you can tell us,” Dean said. “Mostly, we’ve just heard of the curse. And we’ve heard that four people have died mysteriously around here in the last month.”

“Yep,” Mr. Ogle frowned at the floor as he considered the recent deaths. “Reckon that’s why I figure we should start talkin’ about it.”

And for the next two hours the Ogles did talk about it. Mrs. Ogle served them coffee and Bundt cake, which Dean happily accepted and Sam politely declined. Mr. Ogle did most of the talking, but Mrs. Ogle would occasionally add some point or detail that he had missed. They talked first about the four people that had died in the last month. Dean and Sam quickly got lost in the details of who was someone’s second cousin, or first cousin once removed, or the ex-husband of so-and-so’s neighbor’s cousin. Bottom line, as far as they could tell, was that these were lifelong residents of the town with lots of family connections.

"No strange behavior beforehand? No talk about feeling cold spots or seeing lights flicker or stuff like that?” Dean found that asking the questions under the guise of “paranormal investigator” made them sound even more ridiculous than usual, but forged ahead anyway.

“Nothing strange at all, as far as we’ve heard,” Mrs. Ogle replied. “They were just as normal as could be until they were found dead.”

“What are the police saying?” Sam asked.

Apparently, the police didn’t have a clue what was going on. Four people, all fairly young and in good health, no signs of trauma – just dead. The coroner had ruled out heart attacks, strokes, aneurisms, and drugs. Mrs. Ogle said she heard that the coroner and the sheriff had gotten into a very heated discussion when the sheriff commented that finding out what _didn’t_ kill them wasn’t really what he was after.

“Since no one knows what’s goin’ on, they start whisperin’ about the Bledsoe curse,” Mr. Ogle said.

“But no one has died at the Bledsoe place, have they?” Sam asked in a properly skeptical voice. “Did any one of the victims have any connection to the Bledsoe place?”

“Not that anyone can figure,” Mr. Ogle answered. “But that don’t seem to matter none to people talkin’. They got these spook stories from their parents and grandparents, ya know? See, this ain’t the first time we’ve had deaths like this around here.” He asked his wife to go get the file folder and waited for a bit to continue his story. “Last time was in 1986. Five people died that time. And if you count…”

"You’re forgettin’ the tornado, Jim,” Mrs. Ogle interrupted, returning to the room with a folder of newspaper clippings. She sat down in a chair next to her husband’s and laid her hand on his arm. “Twenty-eight more people died in that tornado.”

“Well, I reckon I was gettin’ to that,” Mr. Ogle said, patting her hand. “Yep, tornado at the end of the summer killed twenty-eight people. After that, no more deaths. I mean, no more that couldn’t be explained.”

“Do people think the strange deaths and the tornado were related?” Dean asked, incredulous.

“That’s what they think,” Mr. Ogle responded. Mrs. Ogle glanced up at Sam and Dean to see how they responded to that bit of information, and Sam caught her eye.

“What do you think, Mrs. Ogle?” he asked, holding her gaze.

“They were related alright. One and the other had the same cause, whatever that was,” Mrs. Ogle answered him, her voice firm. Sam waited, hoping that she would explain more about her certainty that the tornado was related to the mysterious deaths. She didn’t offer anything further, though, just gave him a small nod as though to confirm her answer and then looked away.

“And the strange deaths back then – same as the deaths this month? No cause ever determined?” Sam continued.

“They never did say a reason. Five people just died.” Mr. Ogle was continuing to pat his wife’s hand. “And that twister took twenty-eight more.”

“So people talk about the Bledsoe curse,” Dean said, “but no one has actually died on the Bledsoe property, right?”

“That’s right,” Mr. Ogle responded. “But I keep an eye on the place just in case anybody gets any bright ideas like tryin’ to burn it down or somethin’.” He leveled a stern look at Dean and Sam.

“We’ll be sure to let you know if we plan to go poking around again,” Dean said with a sheepish smile. “We don’t want to disturb anyone, and we sure don’t want to get shot.”

“So if nobody has died there, and none of the victims are connected to the property, what is the Bledsoe curse supposed to be?” Sam asked. He noticed that Mr. Ogle’s grip on his wife’s hand tightened a bit.

“People lookin’ for an explanation,” Mr. Ogle said. “Just people scared and bringin’ up old tales they’ve heard from years back.”

“Did they say the same thing when people died in 1959?” Sam pressed. The couple both looked taken aback.

“Well, you boys know a little more about things than ya let on, don’t ya?” Mr. Ogle asked. Neither Dean nor Sam made any response to the somewhat accusatory question. They merely waited for Mr. Ogle to continue. After a bit, he did. “I don’t really know, to tell the truth. I might look ancient, but I was only three-years old at the time. They say three people died then, or it might…”

“We ought to let these fellas get going, Jim. It’s gettin’ awfully late.” Mrs. Ogle stood and started clearing dishes. Apparently, the discussion had gone as far as she could tolerate for one evening. The men stood also, and Dean quickly gathered the rest of the plates and cups and followed her into the kitchen. He and Sam thanked the Ogles and were soon back in the Impala headed to the motel.

“What do you think?” Dean looked over at Sam.

“I think the Ogles know a little bit more than what they told us,” Sam replied.


	4. Bad Dreams

Dean tacked the yellowed newspaper clipping onto the wall of the motel room. He had decided a few thumbtack holes were the least of the worries for the ancient wood paneled walls. Not that the room was particularly objectionable. The Mountaineer Lodge certainly wasn’t the worst place they had ever stayed, he’d give it that much. Worst Place We Ever Stayed was actually a game that he and Sam played occasionally to pass the time on long car trips. They could easily argue for an hour or more about the intricacies of what constituted a truly awful place. Were cigarette burns in the bedcovers worse than rusty stains in the sink? Was a truly abysmal motel room worse than squatting in a relatively clean abandoned house? Were roaches worse than mice? The delights of having grown up being dragged around the country by an obsessed parent were certainly endless.

“So when this happened last time…” Sam was saying. He was seated in the desk chair, the only seating in the room, with his feet propped up on the end of the bed and his laptop resting on his legs. “…Mr. and Mrs. Ogle said that thirty-three people died.”

“Yeah, five people died mysteriously first, and then twenty-eight were killed by a tornado.” Dean finished hanging up the newspaper clippings that the Ogles had allowed them to take. The newspaper reports were about the unexplained deaths that had happened in the small town of Norris, Tennessee, in the summer of 1986, along with stories on the devastating tornado that had torn through the town at the end of the summer. “I’m not sure I buy the tornado thing, though. That would take some serious juju, man. I mean – tornadoes happen.”

“Well the Ogles seemed pretty sure that it was connected. I think they had some reason they weren’t completely telling us. And, yeah, tornadoes happen, but not so much here. We’re not in Kansas, Dean.”

“Fine, Toto, what do you think could have caused an actual tornado? That cross you found looks witchy, but come on – we’ve run into some pretty gnarly witches in our day, and I don’t think any of them could pull off a tornado. Demon maybe?”

Sam frowned at his laptop in concentration and didn’t reply. He had been searching for additional online accounts of any of the deaths from 1986, or 1959, but wasn’t having much luck. He had uploaded several pictures of the crucifix, so he decided to concentrate on it for a while and began doing a search for similar objects.

Dean pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed that wasn’t occupied by Sam’s feet. It was late. He was exhausted from driving fourteen hours and climbing creaky, wobbly ladders in the dark. And from listening to the story the Ogles had told. Nothing about it fit together in the way Dean would expect – no ten year demon-deals, no evidence of ghosts, the Ogles hadn’t even mentioned the strange crucifix or the possibility of a witch. No wonder John Winchester hadn’t made any headway on the case thirty years ago.

Dad’s journal entry had been what turned them on to the case to begin with. Because Dean and Sam had pored over the journal for information over the years, they had occasionally run across something that John had been unable to explain. Sam had long ago set up automatic searches and notifications for several possibilities, and one of those searches had been for “Norris, TN – death – unexplained and/or mysterious.” They had both been shocked when Sam had received a notification two days ago of a news story that sounded just like what their father had investigated thirty years earlier.

The journal had detailed John’s investigation in Norris – how several people had died under mysterious circumstances, how the townspeople had whispered about the Bledsoe curse. Apparently, John had never been able to pinpoint what connection the Bledsoe place had to the deaths. None had occurred on the property, and nothing had been found to connect the victims to the property. His journal entry had been pretty bare bones for a week-long investigation. The only worthwhile clue had been that the same strange events had happened twenty-seven years earlier in the summer of 1959. Three people had died then. And if it had happened twice, it might happen again.

Dean was wondering vaguely where he and Sam had been while Dad was  in Tennessee – he thought they might have been left with Bobby or maybe Pastor Jim – when he drifted to sleep. He was startled awake sometime later by Sam smacking him on the bottom of the foot.

“Whu..what..what?”

“Dude, you having a nightmare or something?” Sam asked. Dean just stared at him blearily. “You were starting to thrash around, man. Whatever was happening, you weren’t happy about it.”

Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes. He yawned loudly.

“Don’t know – can’t remember it. You find anything?” Dean changed the subject.

“No – nothing much. I was just getting ready to turn in too. I did find one place I think we should check out, though.”

“Yeah? Where’s that?” Dean asked as he made his way to the bathroom. Sam waited until he returned to his bed to answer the question. He turned his laptop screen towards Dean.

**_White Pine, Tennessee – the Norris Dam Ghost Town_** was emblazoned across the top of the screen.

“Ghost town? Are you serious?”

“Absolutely,” Sam said. “I think it would be a good place to see some of the history of the area. The Bledsoe place was part of the White Pine community before everyone was moved out for the government to build Norris Dam.”

“So that’s the ghost town? A place that everybody got tossed out of back in 19-whenever?”

“It’s a little more than that. It’s the only place that people got tossed out of but was never actually flooded.” Dean just gave him a blank stare. “We’ll talk more in the morning when you’re actually awake.” Sam shut his laptop down, got into bed, and clicked off the bedside light. His breathing was soon slow and even in sleep. Dean, however, didn’t return to sleep for a long time. He really couldn’t remember what he had been dreaming about, he hadn’t just been telling Sam that, but it had left him with a very uneasy feeling. Whatever the dream had been, it had been something bad, and he was reluctant to possibly return to it. Eventually, though, his wariness was overcome by exhaustion.

 

_Dean trapped Ben against the wall with one forearm. His lips curled back from the fangs that had descended in front of his teeth, and Ben hollered frantically when he saw them – calling for help, calling for his mother. Lisa was there in a second, launching herself at Dean, trying desperately to put herself between him and her son, but Dean held her off easily with his other arm._

_When he sank his fangs into Ben’s neck, it was as though two separate beings were there inside Dean’s body. One was amazed at the taste of the sweet, warm blood filling its mouth. It was better than anything it had ever tasted, and it was thrilled at the realization that it could drain all of the blood from Ben’s body and then turn to Lisa for more. The other being, the part that felt like Dean, seemed bound somewhere in his own head. He fought and clawed and bellowed for it to stop, please stop, but he was powerless. And the first being seemed to take as much pleasure from defying Dean’s helpless internal pleading as it did from the taste of the blood or from Ben’s pain and terror. It was only a few moments before Ben’s body was still, drained of life._

_Dean tossed the dead boy aside and turned to Lisa then, his lips and jaws covered in deep red blood. He pulled her to him as though to embrace her, and she no longer fought him. Watching her son be shoved lifeless to the floor seemed to have robbed her of any fear or any desire to escape. She wanted to die too. But to just give her what she wanted really wasn’t much fun, the first being thought. It was satisfied for the moment with Ben’s blood, it could afford to take its time. The part of his mind that still felt like Dean recoiled at the plans that the other being formed. It would eventually kill Lisa, but not quickly – not until she had begged – not until it had relished her fear and pain. Not until Dean had been forced to watch it all._

 

Dean jerked awake. He sat straight up in bed, breathing as though he had just finished a sprint, shaking and covered in a cold sweat. He shot a furtive glance over to see if he had awakened Sam, but saw that he was still asleep. Relief washed over Dean, more than anything he did not want to have to explain this nightmare to his brother.

Lisa and Ben were the ones that had kept Dean alive during the year he believed Sam was in the cage with Lucifer. Having them to care for had kept him human. But when the world of hunting came back into his life along with Sam, Dean had been unable to deal with Lisa and Ben being in constant danger. He had chosen instead to remove himself from their lives. Thanks to some angelic manipulation from Cas, Lisa and Ben no longer had any recollection of Dean Winchester. But Dean remembered them.

He snagged Sam’s laptop and carried it into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He checked the sites quickly – school attendance, debit card use, the traffic cam that provided an occasional glimpse of Lisa coming home from work or Ben leaving for his job at the movie theater. It had been eleven-year old Ben in his dream, but the kid was driving now. Sam had set the sites up for him years ago. He had never said anything, just left them open one day for Dean to find. And Dean had never acknowledged them. He knew that Sam knew how often he checked on them. There was no need to discuss it.

They were safe. Lisa’s debit card records said that she had been to the grocery store that day after work. Ben had returned from his theater job around 1:00 AM according to the traffic cam. Dean’s breathing finally slowed to normal again. He stood and turned on the hot water in the shower, stripping out of his shorts. He stayed in the shower for a long time, washing away the cold sweat and trying to wash the memories of the dream from his mind.


	5. The First Time

Norris, Tennessee 1926

 

Jonas was so nervous, he felt like he was going to be sick. The men of his family were doing their best to keep him occupied in the barn. They had played cards sitting on bales of hay, thrown horseshoes from one end of the barn to the other, and shot dice. Now Uncle Fred had brought out the moonshine to pass around. Jonas refused to drink, though. He was afraid that if he once got started on the corn liquor, he wouldn’t stop until he was falling down. And Ellie would be madder than a wet hen if he was drunk when they came to get him. He didn’t want to do anything that would upset Ellie.

He was pacing restlessly as the uncles and cousins got deeper into their cups and started telling stories. His cousin Abel went first. Abel had, in fact, gotten falling down drunk his first time. According to him, his wife hadn’t said a word about it, but as soon as she was able she had clocked him with a frying pan. Abel showed the scar on his left temple, and everyone roared with laughter.

Uncle Roy had worked himself into such a tizzy that he passed out. They had bedded him down in one of his horse stalls and forgotten all about him for several hours. When he finally woke up to find everyone celebrating in his house, Uncle Roy had cussed them up one side and down the other and refused to speak to any of them for nearly a week.

Jonas was beginning to smile a little listening to the stories. Everett Bledsoe was relieved to see his son brightening up. It was hardest the first time; he remembered it himself, even though it had been twenty years ago now. Then Dennis, one of the younger cousins, piped up.

“Uncle Jimmy, tell us your story.” Dennis’ father clapped him on the back of the head immediately, but it was too late. All the uncles and the older cousins knew the story of Uncle Jimmy’s first time and would have given anything to have avoided it being brought up.

“I don’t reckon I will, Dennis,” Uncle Jimmy said quietly. “Jonas don’t need to hear that old story again. Tate, why don’t you tell us about you and Darlene?”

Tate obligingly launched into his story, but Jonas wasn’t really listening anymore. He had been only eight when it happened, but he remembered Uncle Jimmy and his first wife, Helen. They had been married exactly ten months on the day Helen went into labor. No one could have asked for better timing or an easier pregnancy. The men and boys had been gathered just like this in Uncle Jimmy’s barn. Jonas had been trying to snag the moonshine jug as it was passed around and get his first taste – with everyone in such a jovial mood it had seemed like the perfect time.

When Aunt Gladys came into the barn and made a beeline for Uncle Jimmy, Jonas hadn’t been paying much attention, but the look on her face had caused the rest of the men to fall instantly silent. Jonas would never forget looking up at his uncle as Aunt Gladys whispered into his ear. The look on his uncle’s face had terrified him even as a young boy. He had never seen such raw pain. They would all soon learn that Aunt Helen had died, along with her and Uncle Jimmy’s infant son.

And Ellie’s pregnancy had been far from easy. They had been married nearly a year and a half when she had given him the joyous news that she was finally expecting, but their joy had turned almost immediately to concern when she started bleeding. She had bled on and off for the entire pregnancy and spent much of the previous eight months resting in bed and being violently ill. Everyone was frankly surprised that she and the baby had made it this far.

Jonas clenched his jaw and clamped his lips together tightly to keep from crying right there in front of everyone. If anything happened to Ellie…

“It’s a girl! Jonas, it’s a girl!” His mother came bursting into the barn, hollering the good news for the whole county to hear. He looked up, stunned, as she hurried over to throw her arms around his neck. “And Ellie is just fine, baby, she’s just fine. And she’s asking for…” His mother dissolved into happy tears, and Jonas quickly handed her off to his father. He ran for the cabin with the other men’s whistles and clapping ringing in his ears.

Miriam Grace Bledsoe - he and Ellie had already picked out names – Miriam Grace Bledsoe was born, and momma and baby were just fine.


	6. White Pine

Norris, Tennessee 2016 

“So the Bledsoe place was part of this White Pine community,” Dean repeated what Sam had been telling him, “and White Pine was a place where a bunch of people were forced off their land to make way for a dam?”

“Yeah, looks like. Not just White Pine; a lot of communities were displaced, actually. A few thousand families had to be moved. Basically, their land ended up at the bottom of a lake.” Dean was driving and Sam was giving him the rundown on his research from the night before. He explained how in the 1930’s the government had planned a system of dams in Appalachia, both to control flooding and to provide hydroelectric power for the region. “It was a really poor area of the country. The electric power was a huge thing.”

“Still seems like a raw deal, you know?” Dean said. “There you are, living your life, probably had the land in your family for ages, and then the government comes along and kicks you out.”

“They didn’t just get kicked out. They got paid for their land. Of course, they didn’t really get any choice in taking the payment or not.” Sam consulted the sheets he had printed out. “So the White Pine community was one of the first to be displaced. It was really small, just a few hundred folks. I guess it seemed like a good place for the TVA to ease in to the whole thing.”

“TVA?”

“The Tennessee Valley Authority – the government agency in charge of the whole thing.”

“But you said last night that White Pine wasn’t ever flooded, right?” Dean asked. “That’s where we’re headed now to see the quote-unquote ghost town?”

“Yeah, that’s right. It’s part of the state park system, so they give tours to school groups and stuff.”

“Why did they clear it out if it wasn’t even going to get flooded?”

“I don’t know; I didn’t find anything that explained that. Maybe we can ask the friendly neighborhood park ranger,” Sam said with a grin. Dean just looked exasperated. It was a well-established fact for them that most officials they encountered were not particularly helpful. Their expertise rarely coincided with the things that Dean and Sam were investigating.

“More likely we’ll have to avoid him to find anything useful. You know, I haven’t met a ranger I really liked since Ranger Rick,” Dean said.

“Ranger Rick? You mean the guy from a few years back? Ranger Rick was stoned out of his mind on Leviathan sedative, Dean.”

“Well sure…but you have to admit, Rick was great.” Dean smiled faintly in fond memory.

 

*************************

 

“I take back everything I said about park rangers, Sammy.”

“Gee, you don’t say? I wonder what brought on that change of heart, Dean.”

Earlier, when they had reached the small assembly of buildings that once constituted the core of the White Pine community, Sam and Dean had dutifully parked in the designated gravel area and joined the tour group. However, when the group began following Ranger Julie – according to her nametag – towards the general store, Dean jerked his head in a “follow me” gesture, and he and Sam stayed to investigate the building that Ranger Julie said had served as the community church, school, and public gathering place.

Dean’s abandonment of the tour group was certainly not for a lack of appreciation of the “friendly neighborhood park ranger.” Ranger Julie was definitely a step above the average. Tall and slender, she had large brown eyes and an abundance of curly auburn hair that she had pulled back in a messy ponytail. She even managed to make the government issued uniform look good. But they really couldn’t get much investigation done if they stayed with the group; civilians tended to get a little spooked when EMF meters were brought out.

“I’m serious, Sammy. I definitely think I need to talk to her more. She seemed very capable…”

“Who seems very capable?” Sam and Dean turned quickly to the voice coming from the door. Ranger Julie was standing there looking at them, her facial expression one of slightly bemused curiosity. Dean smoothly pocketed his meter and smiled disarmingly.

“Ranger. I hope it’s no problem that we hung back here. I just really wanted to see more of this building. It seemed like it was probably an important place for the community.”

“No problem, you’re free to go into any of the buildings. The rest of the group’s exploring on their own now, too. Some of them will likely come back this way, though, so you probably don’t want to be waving those instruments around unless you enjoy a lot of questions.” Both Dean and Sam looked surprised and somewhat guilty.

“We were just…uh…” Sam started to say.

“Looking for ghosts? Did you find any?”

“How did…?”

“Since you’re not in elementary school, and you’re not with an old folk’s tour group, I figured you must be the ghost hunters my parents were telling me about. Sam and Dean.” Dean shot Sam a quick look which clearly said – I was right, wasn’t I? very capable – then stepped towards Julie and held his hand out.

“I’m Dean,” he said as he shook her hand. Then he nodded over his shoulder. “And that’s Sam. It’s nice to meet you. So the Ogles are your parents, huh?”

“They are. Julie McIntyre, nice to meet you.” Julie said.

“What did your mom and dad have to say about us?” Sam asked, walking over to where Dean and Julie were standing. They had metered pretty much every square inch of the building without getting a single hit or seeing anything suspicious. Maybe Ranger Julie would actually have something useful to tell them.

“Said you were brothers from Kansas, and that dad found you at the Bledsoe place.” Dean and Sam both managed to looked a little chagrined as Julie continued. “So, brothers, huh? Are you two it, or is the whole family in the ghost hunting business?”

“Well, we are the whole family…” Sam started to say.

“Except Mom. Mom helps out too sometimes,” Dean interrupted proudly as Julie’s look of bemusement increased.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said tentatively, “but you both look a little too intelligent for the whole ghost hunter thing. Plus, it doesn’t look like you’re recording this, so I’m assuming it isn’t some kind of YouTube performance that you’re selling to internet chumps. Not that you don’t have the looks to be performance artists…” Dean looked smug at her assessment; Sam just looked embarrassed.

“We’re not recording anything, I promise,” Sam said. “We really are here to investigate. We’ve heard about the Bledsoe curse and wanted to have a look around here since it was part of this community.” A shadow darkened Julie’s expression for just a moment, a look of vague apprehension, but she waved her arm to indicate the entirety of the White Pine community.

“Like I said, feel free to look anywhere you want. If I was a ghost, though, I think I’d make it a point not to be found in a ghost town. Seems a little cliché, you know?” Julie hesitated then, as though wanting to say more. Her brows drew together in concentration, and she unconsciously bit her bottom lip as she thought. Dean found the gesture instantly endearing. He quickly threw her another question to keep her talking.

“Sam and I were wondering. Why was White Pine emptied out if it was never flooded?”

“I don’t really have a great answer for you on that, I’m afraid. Incorrect calculations, fluke of the topography – no one has ever really determined for sure.”

“And why didn’t the people return when it didn’t flood?” Sam asked.

“Well, it was nearly five years after the community was evacuated before the dam was completed. People had probably resettled by that time. Plus, I suspect TVA never offered to sell the land back.”

Just then, a rowdy group of elementary school boys entered, accompanied by a rather frazzled looking parent chaperone, and began practically running laps around the perimeter of the room. Julie nodded towards them and raised her eyebrows expressively. Clearly, the chaperone was going to require some assistance if the hundred-plus year-old building was going to survive the mob.

“Let me know if you find anything,” she said as she moved away towards the pint-sized gang. “I’d be really interested to hear about it.” She smiled teasingly, but Dean saw a flash of concern cross her face as she turned.

Dean and Sam made a quick job of the rest of the buildings, slowed only by working around roaming groups of school kids and elderly tourists.

“Kids and old people, man – equally annoying in their own way,” Dean complained to Sam under his breath as they waited, again, for a scrum of children to clear a doorway. The last slowdown had been two little old women who managed to get their walkers tangled up with one another. Sam and Dean had sorted that one out and then lost another five minutes to offers of profuse thanks and general fawning over “such nice young men.”

Like every other building they had checked, there was absolutely nothing suspicious to be found. They were batting a goose egg and agreed that it was time to return to the car.

“We gave it a try,” Dean said as they climbed into the Impala. “Just nothing there at all. We’re going to have to rethink our approach.”

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Sam replied. “I thought we might learn something here, but I guess there just isn’t…” he trailed off, his attention caught by something out the driver-side window. Dean turned to see Julie approaching them with a determined stride and began rolling his window down. From the look on her face, she was finally going to tell them whatever she had been thinking about before.

“Ranger Julie, thanks for your…” Dean began, but Julie spoke over him.

“Put it back,” she said, her voice almost pleading. “Put it back and just leave it alone, okay?”

Dean and Sam just stared at her, both wearing the same puzzled expression.

“I know one of you had horrible dreams last night,” she said quietly, concern evident on her face. “Please put it back. If you just put it back, there won’t be any more nightmares, I promise.” Dean was too shocked to say anything. How could she possibly know about the nightmare?

“What are you talking about? What is she talking about, Dean?” Sam looked from the ranger to his brother, the truth in her statement obvious from the stunned look on Dean’s face.

 “I promise – if you put it back, it will be over,” Julie stopped talking as abruptly as she had started and walked quickly away to rejoin the school group that had begun to emerge from the building. Sam and Dean stared after her.


	7. The Crucifix

“So why didn’t you tell me about it?” Sam had been interrogating Dean for the entire trip back to their motel and had finally managed to drag out the whole story of the previous night’s dream, the one that Julie had presumably been referring to. How she had known about the nightmare was a mystery they had yet to address.

“It was just a dream, alright?” Dean responded, testily. “It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“It was a big enough deal that you decided to check on them in the middle of the night,” Sam pointed out. He still, even after so many years, never actually said the names ‘Lisa’ or ‘Ben’ to Dean. “It was a big enough deal that you were running a shower at 3:00 in the morning.”

“Well, look, dude – if you heard me running a shower and wondered what was wrong, why didn’t you just come check on me, huh?”

“Sure, seems like a great idea,” Sam responded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I wake up in the middle of the night, my brother’s taken my laptop, and he’s in the shower. I should probably go see if he needs any help.”

“Shut up…bitch.”

“You shut up, jerk. You could have just told me.”

“Fine! I could have just told you, but I didn’t. But now I have, so can we move on to something more important? Like how the hell did Julie know about the nightmare? And what are we supposed to put back, the crucifix?” They walked into the motel room as Sam contemplated Dean’s questions.

Dean sat down in the chair and picked up the crucifix from where Sam had left it on the top of the dresser. Apparently Jim Ogle had the old place catalogued a lot better than Dean and Sam had realized. He must have gone back after they left his house, found the crucifix missing, and discussed it with his daughter for some unknown reason. And that still didn’t explain how Julie knew about his nightmare. Dean held the small crucifix up by the ribbon, contemplating it as it hung there twisting ever so slightly. The garish color had to be blood, but how much blood had it taken to stain it so deeply?

Sam was sitting on his bed sorting through a small pile of papers. He picked out the sheets he had been looking for and carried them over to the wall, tacking them up next to the newspaper stories they had gotten from the Ogles.

“From what I found, I think the symbols are probably Scottish in origin.”

“Scottish?” Dean asked, his eyebrows raised.

“It makes sense actually. Most of this area was settled by Scotch-Irish immigrants, so some of them probably brought the old country practices with them. Apparently,” Sam ran his finger down the text, looking for a particular passage, “they were known as ‘cunning folk’ in Scotland.”

“So that was the Scottish version of witchcraft?”

“Most of it was just herbal healing and midwifing, but it looks like they also did some “white magic” spells – fertility and weather and stuff like that.”

“Yeah, well, what about black magic?” Dean asked. “I bet the spell for a white Christmas didn’t call for an upside-down crucifix soaked in blood.”           

“I bet not,” Sam agreed. He flipped to the third page of sheets and pointed to a picture of symbols. Dean squinted at the picture and then squinted at the crucifix – some of the symbols definitely matched. “There were also some rare uses of black magic,” Sam read aloud from the text. “Those spells were called – get this – blood spells.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, staring at the small object with distaste. “Now what the hell does this thing have to do with my dream?”

“That I don’t know,” Sam said, “but you do realize Ranger Julie just became our top suspect?”

“I know…” Dean said. He slumped in the chair and snarled one side of his lip up grumpily. “That sucks. She’d already replaced Rick as my favorite ranger.”

 

***************

 

Dean left to pick up some food while Sam mapped out notes about what they knew so far. They reviewed the notes while Dean ate his cheeseburger and fries and Sam ate a chicken wrap and salad. If Julie was their witch, and if she was responsible for all of the unexplained deaths, beginning in 1959, then she must be a lot older than she looked. They both shuddered a bit at the thought. Witches really were just gross.

“I think it may be time to break out the suits,” Sam concluded as he munched his last bite of salad. “We really need to see the police reports on the victims – see if this crucifix has been turning up anywhere else.”

“Hold up…” Dean, his mouth full of French fries, looked suddenly alarmed. “You mean you think that thing is what’s causing people to die?”

“Of course I do,” Sam looked at him like he was an idiot. “What did you think it was doing?”

“I don’t know,” Dean answered, feebly. “Just causing nightmares, I guess.”

“Maybe you’ll be lucky, she did tell you to put it back. She didn’t seem to want you to die,” Sam pointed out. Dean did not look mollified.

“Why’s that thing giving me the heebs, anyway?” he asked. “You were the one who found it.” Sam just shrugged.

“You were the one who took it, though,” he pointed out. “We could try destroying it, I guess. I’m not sure it’ll be as easy as destroying a hex bag, though,” he cautioned at Dean’s look of relief.

“Worth a try…”

Sam disconnected the motel room fire alarm while Dean got a small metal bucket out of the Impala’s trunk and crumpled several pieces of paper into it. He set the bucket on the bathroom countertop and set the papers alight.

“Here goes nothing…” Dean said hopefully as he dangled the crucifix by the ribbon and lowered it towards the blaze. Sam stood next to him, looking doubtful.

The tip of the crucifix touched the flames. For a second, the tip glowed with an odd green light. The glow expanded rapidly, like a green aura surrounding the whole of the wooden object. And then an explosion, a shock wave shattering the bathroom mirror, shattering the water glasses, hurling Dean and Sam back into the room. Dean crashed into the dresser, his head slamming against the wall. Sam smashed into the bedside table and fell to the ground.

The crucifix lay unharmed in the sink. In the bucket, the little blaze slowly faded away as it consumed all of the paper. And Sam and Dean lay unconscious where they had fallen.


	8. TVA

“Momma…momma…momma…” the little voice took on a sing-song quality as Miriam Bledsoe attempted to gain her mother’s attention. Ellie sat in her rocking chair close to the fire, staring out the window where it had already grown dark. She rocked very slowly, and her brow was knit together in worry. Miriam patted her gently on the arm. With a start, Ellie snapped out of her reverie and noticed her little daughter.

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry. What did you need, sugar?” Ellie said, drawing Miriam close to her and kissing the top of her head. “I just wish I knew when Daddy was going to be home. I’m getting awfully hungry for supper, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Miriam answered decisively. “Daddy would want you to eat.”

Ellie laughed and hugged the little girl tightly. Miriam had been so sweet and helpful throughout her pregnancy. She often repeated the questions that she heard Jonas asking Ellie – Have you eaten? Are you tired? Shouldn’t you rest a bit? Miriam was almost as excited about the impending birth as her mother and father were.

Thankfully, she didn’t seem to remember the other times. She wasn’t quite five years-old yet, and she had been so young when Ellie had the miscarriages. Miriam had simply understood then that her mother was sick, and very sad. She had never made the connection between those times and the new baby brother or sister that she was happily anticipating now.

Ellie awkwardly pulled herself out of the rocking chair. She rested one hand on her back and one hand on her enormous belly and stretched as well as she could. This time had been different. This baby had held on determinedly, growing strong through the months, almost full term now. This time Miriam really would have a baby brother or sister.

“So Daddy would want me to eat, is that what you think, Little Rabbit?” Ellie smiled down at Miriam playfully. Miriam returned a look of absolute innocence.

“Uh-huh. And he would want me to eat with you so’s you don’t have to eat alone.” She smiled up at her mother beatifically.

“Alright, then…” Ellie said, laughing. She had barely gotten the words out before Miriam was eagerly carrying the plates over to the little workbench beside the fire. The stewpot hung to the side there, just close enough to the blaze to stay warm. Miriam handed her mother the ladle.

“My Little Rabbit must be growing again,” Ellie said. “You’re really hungry, aren’t you, sugar?”

Miriam nodded happily as her mother lifted the lid off of the stewpot and ladled some out onto their plates. Ellie smiled at her daughter carefully carrying the plates to the table. Miriam was sturdy and strong for her age. Her hair was the same dark blond that Ellie’s had been at that age, and her face shape varied between resembling Ellie or Jonas more. But Miriam’s eyes were completely her own. Dark, rich brown and almond shaped, turning up just slightly on the outer edges. Ellie and Jonas had started calling her Little Rabbit from the first moment she opened her eyes wide.

They heard the sound of Jonas arriving home at the same time and turned to greet him.

“Daddy!” Miriam flung herself on her father as soon as he walked through the door and Jonas caught her and swung her up in the air.

“How’s my Little Rabbit?” He said, planting a kiss under her ear that made Miriam squirm and giggle. Jonas set her down and walked over to give Ellie a kiss. She could see from his face that the meeting had not been a good one. When he didn’t even mention it as they sat down to eat, Ellie knew that he was waiting until they could send Miriam to bed before discussing what had occurred. She felt her stomach clench with worry.

As soon as supper was finished and cleaned up, Ellie took Miriam to the outhouse and then up to the loft to get her nightgown on and tuck her into bed. Getting up and down from the loft had become a bit of a problem lately for Ellie, but she was determined not to move their bed or Miriam’s down into the main room. As long as Jonas stayed at the bottom of the ladder whenever she went up or down, Ellie insisted that everything would be fine. When she had tucked Miriam in, Jonas stood to help her down and then led her back over to the rocking chair.

“Goodness, Jonas,” Ellie said sitting down with a deep sigh, “That climb’s getting awful difficult. I think we really ought to consider adding on that room soon.” She smiled gently at her husband, but the look on his face caused the smile to fade quickly.

“It was bad, Ellie. It was real bad. I don’t…I don’t even know how to tell it.”

Word of the meeting had spread like wildfire in recent weeks. By the time official notices were received, everyone had heard that a new government agency was requiring a representative from each family in the community to attend a mandatory assembly. What they didn’t know was the purpose of the assembly. Dire rumors had made their way from ear to ear, but no one had really been prepared for just how devastating the news turned out to be.

“Called the Tennessee Valley Authority,” Jonas told Ellie, bitterly. “Guess they wanted to get that ‘authority’ part in there in case anyone reckoned they couldn’t do what they’ve done.”

Ellie’s face grew paler and paler as Jonas told her the purpose of the meeting. The whole community was to be evacuated. They would all have to move, leave everything they had built, everything they had worked for, and start over somewhere else. He explained that the men from the agency and the county Registrar of Deeds would be back in a month to complete the transactions, to pay what they determined the properties were worth and send them off to find other homes. They would have two months to leave.

Ellie couldn’t grasp it all. She could hear Jonas’ words as he spoke about a dam being built and the land being flooded, but her mind just refused to see how that related to them leaving their cabin. They couldn’t leave the cabin. It was their home. It was the home where Miriam had been born. It was the home where the new baby would be born. Just today, she had explained to Miriam that her little rag doll would have to start sleeping in Miriam’s bed with her because the new baby would need the cradle. Ellie’s arms curled protectively over her stomach.   

“But Jonas…where will we go…where will Miriam and the baby sleep?” Ellie’s voice caused Jonas to look up. It sounded so tiny and lost, not at all like his Ellie usually sounded. Jonas had been giving his report mostly to the floorboards, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to maintain his composure. He hadn’t noticed the affect his words had been having on his wife, but now he heard the fear and confusion in her voice and saw the stricken look on her face. Jonas immediately got out of his chair and knelt beside his wife.

“Ellie, don’t be afraid, honey. Don’t be afraid.” Jonas held her face gently in his hands. He brushed at the tears on Ellie’s cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. We’ll be okay. I promise, we’ll be okay.”

 

 


	9. Julie

Norris, Tennessee 2016

 

_Cas refused to fight back. He just lay there as Dean landed blow after blow on his face, and it enraged the other being inside Dean’s mind. There was no fun if there was no struggle. The being knew that the Mark made Dean strong enough to compete with the angel, but it wasn’t sure that he was strong enough to overpower the angel. Let’s find out – it gleefully decided – and slammed the angel blade into the table mere inches from Cas’ face. The blade stood there, quivering, as he backed away and waited for the angel to get to his feet. Cas stood up and looked warily at the now unarmed Dean._

_"Come on, halo, let’s see what you can do.”_

_“I don’t want to fight you, Dean,” Cas said slowly, a confused look on his face. The quick blow landed on Cas’ nose, and Dean felt the cartilage snap as Cas stumbled back against the table. Caged inside his mind, the real Dean tried to find some way to escape. He was sick from the sensations of beating his friend. He did not want to feel his own hands kill Cas._

_“I said, let’s see what you can do!” Dean shouted. He threw another punch and felt a rib crack in Cas’ side. The angel stumbled to one knee, his arm wrapping protectively around his torso as he curled forward, panting with pain. Still, he made no move to retaliate._

_The being stood over him, angrily resigning itself to the lesser pleasures of merely breaking bones and shedding blood, when Cas pushed to his feet and suddenly snapped Dean’s head back with an unexpected uppercut. While the imprisoned Dean fell back, stunned from the excruciating pain of the broken jaw, the other being was exultant. Finally – some fight, some real fun!_

_After that, Dean landed blow after blow, feeling Cas’ skull crack, his collarbone snap. And Cas finally defended himself, matching Dean’s punishing assault. Dean’s body, controlled by the other being, seemed oblivious to the injuries. But in his mind’s prison, the real Dean lay shattered and prone from the angelic attack._

_“Please stop,” he pleaded weakly, though he wasn’t sure if he was pleading with Cas or the other being. “Please stop. You’re killing him, you’re killing me.”_

_Finally, Dean landed a brutal blow to Cas’ throat, and the angel sank to his knees, struggling to breathe. Dean seized the angel blade and pulled it from the table. He knelt in front of Cas. Through a haze of pain, the captive Dean could see the look of pleading on his friends face an instant before the other being plunged the angel blade into Cas’ heart._

 

“Dean! Dean!” Dean woke with a start, shoving against whatever was holding him. It turned out to be his brother, shaking him frantically, trying to get him to snap out of an obvious nightmare. Sam held his hands up as soon as Dean began resisting and backed away from him.

“What the hell, man?” Dean looked around in a panic. He suddenly recalled the explosion from the crucifix, then slamming into the wall, and then…

“Cas!”

“Cas? What about Cas?” Sam asked, helping Dean to his feet.

“I was…well, I was…” Dean faltered, the pain and wretchedness of the dream engulfing him again and leaving him shaking. He stumbled over to the bed and sat down taking deep, gulping breaths.

“You had another nightmare?” Sam asked. Dean just nodded, unable to speak for the moment. He focused briefly on Sam’s face and saw several bleeding scratches. The possibility that Sam was injured snapped Dean back to the present.

“What happened to your face?” Dean asked. Sam looked confused. He turned and walked to the bathroom counter, bending to find an area of the mirror intact enough to see his reflection. He reached up and gently touched the bleeding area.

“Hmm…must have taken a hit from some of the broken glass. No big deal,” Sam said. He started to turn the water on and then stopped as he noticed the crucifix lying in the sink. Gingerly, he lifted it aside then washed his face. By the time he had dabbed his cheek dry, and applied some tissue paper to the thin wounds which had begun oozing blood again as he washed them, Dean had recovered his composure. Sam turned to find him typing out a text with lightning speed.

“Didn’t know you could text that fast,” Sam commented, but Dean ignored him, staring at his phone as though expecting an instantaneous response. “You checking in with Cas?”

“Yeah,” Dean barely grunted, continuing to stare silently as Sam began trying to clean up some of the debris in the room. He was lifting the cracked dresser back into a standing position when Dean’s phone bleeped. Dean scanned it quickly, then looked up with a relieved grin.

“They’re on the west coast. Got a thin lead they’re following on Lucifer. Apparently, Crowley is trying to talk him into knocking off for the day and joining him for a game of Jenga,” Dean reported. Sam chuckled and Dean stood and stretched, groaning at the ache across his back left by his encounter with the dresser. “How long were we out? What the hell?”

The bedside clock read 12:15 am.

“Son of a bitch – we were out for almost ten hours?!”

“I know,” Sam said. “I don’t get it either. Obviously, it was more than just cracking our heads that was keeping us out. That thing’s got some seriously bad juice.”

He walked back over to the bathroom counter and lifted the crucifix by the ribbon, dangling it in front of the shattered mirror. “Guess I was right about it being hard to destroy. Wish I hadn’t been quite that right.”

“Okay dude – what the hell? That thing tried to take us both out; I just killed Cas in my head; and honestly, I don’t even want to try going to sleep again.” Dean said. He paced back and forth, roughing his hands through his hair in exasperation. “I say we pay Ranger Julie’s house a visit right now.”

“Yeah…I guess we have to…” Sam agreed, reluctantly. “I’d rather check out the house without her in there, but we’ve got the witch bullets if we have to use them…” He shrugged. Neither was happy about the idea of breaking into a house that was evidently occupied by a powerful witch, but it felt like the crucifix had forced their hand.

 

*****************

 

Dean slowly rotated the doorknob beneath his hand. Sam stood across the hall, just to the right of where the door would open, his gun drawn and ready. Dean mouthed a three count and then quickly opened the door. After waiting a beat, Sam stepped forward and swept his flashlight beam and gun across the opening. Nothing was there except for steps leading to the basement. He shook his head at Dean.

“Steps to the basement,” Sam whispered. They had broken into Ranger Julie’s house with no problem and quickly assessed the layout – living room, kitchen, carport, all on one side of the house, bedrooms on the other side. Dean and Sam had already done a thorough search of the main rooms and were working their way towards the bedroom end of the house.

So far their search of the upstairs had told them a couple of things. One, there was absolutely nothing of an occult nature in the rooms they had searched. And two, there was a young child living or staying there. The home was clean and fairly tidy, but a child’s items were visible everywhere – toys, clothes, cups and plates, pictures. The drawings covering the front of the refrigerator identified the child as Isaac.

“Do you want to see if there are any other open rooms, or tackle the basement?” Dean whispered back.

“Check out that first bedroom,” Sam whispered, nodding his head down the hall to the right. “The door’s open, maybe no one’s in there.”

The bedroom seemed to be a sort of home office. Sam did a quick sweep of the room with his flashlight – desk, file cabinet, lots of boxes.

“Hey, this is going to take a while,” he whispered to Dean. “Why don’t you handle this, and I’ll go check out the basement.” Before Dean could protest, Sam had slipped away, closing the door softly behind him. _Dammit…I can’t believe he just stuck me with checking out stupid paperwork –_

Dean imagined Sam getting to explore a nice open basement, maybe a play area or a ping-pong table, and then realized that nowhere in his mind did he envision Sam finding anything bizarre or dangerous. The vibe just wasn’t here. They had been in countless houses where evil things resided, and Dean knew in his bones that this was not one of those houses. _What the hell does Ranger Julie have to do with that god-awful crucifix, then?_

In less than fifteen minutes, Sam was back, slipping soundlessly through the door again and shutting it behind him.

“Well, I hope you had a good time,” Dean hissed in a whisper. He held up a manila folder he had pulled out of a box. “This box has the kid’s Sunday School drawings. The box before that was preschool pictures. I’m starting to feel like a creep pawing through all this squeaky clean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam whispered back. “Nothing in the basement but laundry and riding toys. Oh, and a couple of guinea pigs. I sent a picture to Cas. I figured he could use some cheering up.”  

“Nice,” Dean nodded in agreement. “Look man, I say we get out of here. There just isn’t anything to find. We’ll come back tomorrow and question Ranger Julie, maybe even pull out the Fed duds.”

“You’re right. It just doesn’t feel like…” Sam’s words were interrupted by a sudden noise. Both he and Dean pulled their guns out, and Sam quickly opened the bedroom door. There were distinct sounds of someone in distress coming from the bedroom across the hall, and they were growing louder by the second.

Dean and Sam rushed into the room with guns drawn. Their flashlight beams swept around quickly but found only one occupant in the room. Julie was in the bed, apparently asleep, but twisting and writhing as though battling some unseen force. Dean reached behind him and flipped the switch on the wall, bathing the room in sudden stark light, but still she did not awaken.

“I think she’s having a nightmare,” Sam half mouthed, half spoke. “That’s what you looked like earlier.”

“Well, she probably looks a damn sight better than…”

Julie sat up suddenly, gulping for air and blinking against the brightness of the light. Then she noticed the two armed men in her room. She would have screamed if she hadn’t been so out of breath. As it was, her eyes went wide with terror, and she lunged frantically for the bedside table, presumably to retrieve her service pistol.

“Hey! Whoa!” Dean said, both he and Sam quickly putting their own guns away and raising their hands in the air. “I swear we are not here to hurt you. We won’t move, I promise. Just take your time…settle down. No need for anyone to get hurt.”

Julie had pulled her pistol out of the bedside table and now pointed it at them with a firm, two-handed grip that said she knew what she was doing. As promised, neither Dean nor Sam moved a muscle. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Julie’s ragged breathing. Finally, as it started to slow, she released one hand from the pistol long enough to draw the tangled sheets up to her neck. Her eyes never left Dean and Sam.

“Why are you here?” She asked, her voice rough with sleep and fear. “Why are you in my house?”

“We need some answers,” Sam said, while Dean smiled as disarmingly as he could. “What do you know about that crucifix?”

“Do normal ghost hunters make a habit of breaking into people’s homes?” Julie asked, her eyes narrowing.

“We’re not exactly normal…” Sam started.

“We’ll answer your questions – you answer our questions, okay?” Dean said. “How about we all just put the guns away?”

“No. You’ll answer my questions, and then I’ll put the gun away,” Julie snapped. “Who are you?”

“Dean and Sam, brothers from Kansas, just like we told you,” Dean replied.

“Then why are you in…” Julie didn’t get any further before Sam interrupted her.

“Because people are dying, and Dean is having nightmares that are wigging him out. And trust me, lady, it takes a lot to wig out my brother,” he said. “And you knew it was happening. Apparently it’s happening to you, too. We need to know why. And we need to know what it has to do with the deaths and that crucifix and the Bledsoe curse. Are you causing this?” That question seemed to drain the fight out of her.

“Let me get some clothes on,” she said, lowering her pistol to lay beside her on the bed. Sam and Dean retreated first to the hall; and then, when they heard Julie emerge from the bathroom attached to her room, they backed all the way into the living room. They turned on lights as they went and were sitting on the couch looking as harmless as possible when Julie came into the room. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and Dean could tell by the way the t-shirt lay that she had her pistol tucked into the back of her waistband just like he and Sam did. He was liking Ranger Julie better all the time.

Julie launched into her explanation without any preamble. The crucifix had been taken from the old cabin several times over the years, and it had been returned every time. On the occasions when her father managed to intercept someone returning the thing, the story was always the same. The person who snatched the crucifix began immediately having terrible nightmares. The vicious dreams pulled from their own memories, but their actions become dark and violent, horribly disturbing. The people reported that they felt like prisoners in their own heads – “like another being had taken over their body,” Julie explained, and Dean’s jaw tightened. That certainly described his nightmares accurately.  _I guess when you start with memories like mine, things get bad pretty fast –_

When the person eventually made the connection between the crucifix and the dreams, their first idea was always to get rid of it or try to destroy it.

“Imagine the surprise when the thing you just threw over the side of a bridge shows back up in your car before you even open the door,” Julie said.

“I don’t know about that,” Sam said. “But it can’t be much more surprising than what happens when you try to burn it.” For the first time, Julie seemed to notice the scratches on Sam’s face, and she winced sympathetically.

For whatever reason, the crucifix had to be returned to the cabin. Once it was there, the nightmares stopped.

“So you’re saying, if we return this thing, you and I can both get some sleep?” Dean asked.

“Well… _you_ can…” Julie answered. Her gaze drifted off, and for a moment she didn’t continue. Dean and Sam waited silently. She seemed to have come to a crucial point in the storytelling, and they did not want to spook her. Finally, she continued. “I wasn’t having a nightmare because the crucifix had been taken from the cabin.”

“Why were you having a nightmare then?” Sam asked.

“Because someone else has died.” Julie looked back at them, her face pale and stricken. “I don’t know who it is, but I know someone else is dead.”


	10. The Victims

“Agents Murtaugh and Riggs, huh?” The young deputy sounded vaguely amused, but he immediately sobered when he glanced at Sam and Dean’s stoic faces. “I’ll tell the Sheriff you’re here, then.” As soon as he had walked through the double doors into the inner recesses of the office, Dean grinned.

“Oh man…that one gets them every time,” he laughed, and Sam had to smile, too. The rotating FBI aliases were one of those little things that made the rest of the job bearable. It was always amusing to see if local law enforcement would recognize the references, and if they would acknowledge them in any way. The best ones were the guys who clearly picked up on the names but were determined not to blink an eye.

The young deputy came back to the reception area to announce that Sheriff Kincaid would see them now. Dean and Sam immediately sobered as they heard the doors begin to open. They both nodded curtly at the somewhat cowed deputy as they passed him.

 “And how may I help the Feds?” Sheriff Kincaid asked as he motioned them into seats in front of his desk. He was a large, military-type man who didn’t look like he would fluster easily, and his voice was commanding. There was an underlying edge to it, though, that said Sheriff Kincaid was having a bit of a morning. Unlike the quiet reception area, the inner offices were bustling with activity and chatter. Something had definitely stirred up the sheriff’s office.

“We’re here to investigate the mysterious death,” Dean said, and was rewarded with a stunned expression from Sheriff Kincaid – _so_ _there was another death, just like Julie said. And he doesn’t think anyone knows about it yet –_ “Four mysterious deaths, to be exact,” Dean continued, consulting his notepad as though this was an assignment that he had had very little time to review.

“Well…uh…make that five mysterious deaths now,” Sheriff Kincaid said, his voice gruff with the seriousness of the news but laced with just a touch of relief that the FBI did not, in fact, already know what had happened last night.

“Five?” Sam asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes sir,” Sheriff Kincaid replied. “Last night, 3:00 am, Janna McCall goes to check on her husband who hasn’t come to bed, finds him dead in his chair. Lee McCall: healthy thirty-five year-old, no signs of heart attack, no signs of stroke, no apparent cause of death. Indications that he died between 12:30 and 2:30 am. Coroner is just finishing up now.” The sheriff laid out all of the pertinent information concisely.

“So just like the other four deaths then?” Dean said.

“Afraid so,” Sheriff Kincaid responded. “I suppose you’ll want to see the files?” He closed a folder that had been sitting open on his desktop, replaced it on a stack and pushed the entire stack across the desk.

“Thank you,” Sam said. “Sheriff, do you have any idea what’s causing these deaths?”

“We have absolutely no clue.” Sheriff Kincaid was again concise. “The only thing we seem to be able to determine is what’s not causing them.”

“This isn’t the first time the town’s had deaths like this is it, Sheriff?” Dean asked, again consulting his notepad.

“We did have some deaths back in ’86 that were never explained. There’s no proof that these are related though,” Sheriff Kincaid answered a bit testily.

“And what about the Bledsoe curse, Sheriff. Do you have any knowledge of that?” Dean continued. The sheriff’s eyebrows drew sharply together.

“You aren’t serious. The FBI is asking me about some cock-and-bull story the old folks tell around here? You can’t honestly believe…”

“We believe stories like that sometimes have origins in fact,” Sam interrupted him. “We also believe that some nut jobs out there enjoy copycat crimes. If you have any knowledge surrounding the Bledsoe curse stories, you need to share that with us.” Sheriff Kincaid looked for a moment as though he might refuse. He was clearly already having to deal with too much talk about a fictitious curse. After a moment, though, he sighed deeply and began recounting what he knew.

“The only thing the ‘Bledsoe curse’ has to do with these deaths is that some people are dumber than a bag of hammers,” he said. “They know people have died, that’s it. They don’t know why or how or what it has to do with a curse. They can’t tell you who the curse is supposed to be on or who started the curse. Hell, they don’t even know why it’s called the Bledsoe curse.”

“And the Bledsoe homestead…?” Dean prompted.

“Nothing. Nobody’s died there. Nobody that has died had been there. Not now, not in ’86,” Sheriff Kincaid replied, throwing his hands up in disgust. “These deaths have nothing to do with a curse. And they can’t be copycat crimes because it doesn’t seem like any crime has been committed.”

No one spoke for a while as the Sheriff regained his composure and Dean and Sam waited. Finally, Sheriff Kincaid took a deep breath and continued.

“Now, I’ve got a lot of stuff going on, and a lot of phone calls to field. About half of them are people yammering about a curse that they’re afraid might get them next,” he said with a scowl. “Is there anything else I can do for you all right now?”

“We’d like to speak to the coroner,” Sam said, wisely choosing to forego any more questions for the sheriff.

“Yes sir – Dr. Devaraux. His office is in the morgue – take a right in the hallway, go through the double doors at the end,” the sheriff instructed, rising from his chair. Sam and Dean rose also. “I’m going to have to get back to work now, agents. You can use my office to review the files if you’d like. Ask Deputy Daniels out front for copies if you need them. And he can find me if you have any more questions.” Sheriff Kincaid shook hands and left the room. Dean and Sam both picked up a file from the stack and sat back down. For several minutes they looked through the case files, exchanging them as each was perused. Dean finally broke the silence.

“Ages all similar. Males and females. And they have every known connection possible, apparently. Just like the deaths the Ogles were talking about from the 80’s – everyone is someone’s double second third cousin.” He rolled his eyes.

“Did you notice cause of death?” Sam asked.

“Oh yeah, and that too. Everyone is listed as ‘pulmonary edema’. What does that even mean? Water in the lungs?”

“Fluid in the lungs, actually,” Sam corrected. “And it can mean a lot of different things. I think we ought to go visit Dr. Devaraux.”

They walked through the double doors at the end of the hall and found themselves immediately in the morgue. In the far right-hand corner of the room they could see a glass-enclosed office area. Dr. Devaraux was at his desk busily entering notes into his computer. He was a large, jovial looking man, and he rose as soon as he spotted Dean and Sam standing there. One body, they assumed it was Lee McCall, was still on the examining table.

“I’m Dr. Devaraux, nice to meet you,” the coroner said, thrusting his hand out to shake Dean’s and then Sam’s hand in a firm grip. “I heard the Feds were here. What can I do for you boys?”

Sam led the coroner through a quick review of the now five mysterious deaths – how the victims presented when they were brought in, what observations Dr. Devaraux had made. The coroner used a great deal of technical jargon, from which physician’s seemed incapable of stopping themselves, but the bottom line was eventually reached. Dr. Devaraux had no idea why the five people in question had suddenly died.

“I hate not knowing what killed them,” he finally said with a resigned shrug. “But I’m stumped. I’ve tried contacting some specialists, but nobody’s been able to help me so far. And, honestly, nobody is real interested. Five people is just a blip to most of those big research hospitals and whatnot.”

“The listed cause of death for each of the victims is pulmonary edema, Dr. Devaraux,” Dean said. “What does that mean?”

“It means they all had fluid in their lungs – enough to have killed them,” the coroner answered. “The problem is, there’s a thousand and one things that cause fluid in the lungs. But none of them just happen to an otherwise healthy person sitting in their living room.”

“I’m still not sure…” Sam started, hoping to draw out more information.

“Well, for instance, lung diseases like pneumonia cause fluid in the lungs. The flu can cause fluid in the lungs. Heart failure can cause it. Actually, the end-stage of a lot of diseases cause pulmonary edema.” Dr. Devaraux paused. “But the key word there is end-stage – usually the person has been declining for a long time. It takes a while for lungs to fill up like that.”

“Unless you drown,” Dean said with a chuckle. “I guess that fills them up pretty fast.”

The fleeting look that passed over Dr. Devaraux’s face before he quickly turned away – was it confusion? fear? –  did not go unnoticed by the brothers.  Dean’s comment had apparently hit a little too close to something that the coroner did not want to address, or something that frightened him.

“Drowning _would_ cause fluid in the lungs, wouldn’t it Dr. Devaraux?” Sam’s question was more of a statement.

“Well, of course, but…”

“Was there any indication that the victims had drowned?” Dean pressed.

“No – no one presented at all like a drowning…”

“Did any of the victims appear like they had recently been in water?” Sam continued the line of rapid fire questioning, a technique the brothers sometimes employed to get information out of a reluctant witness. Keep the person slightly off kilter, and eventually they might let slip whatever they were trying to hide.

“No – all of them were fully clothed and completely dry…”

“Could their heads have been held in water?” Dean asked.

 “No – no signs of struggle at all. And this water…”

“Was there something distinctive about the water in their lungs, Dr. Devaraux?” Sam honed in on the last comment. Bingo – this time the confusion and fear were obvious on the coroner’s face. “There _was_ something about the water, wasn’t there?”

“It doesn’t make any sense…I just can’t see how…” Dr. Devaraux stumbled over his words.

“Why don’t you just tell us what it is, and let us decide if it makes sense or not,” Dean said firmly.

The coroner haltingly began to tell them what he had discovered, his voice growing a little stronger as he continued on and neither Sam nor Dean flinched. After the third victim had been brought in and tested for every possible physical anomaly or drug combination that Dr. Devaraux could come up with, he had, in desperation, decided to take a closer look at the fluid from the lungs. To his great surprise he had found sediment in the fluid, evidence of algae and other organic materials. In short, the victim had lake water in her lungs.

 “I went back and checked then. The first two victims had the same fluid in their lungs, and the next one, and now the latest victim has the same thing,” Dr. Devaraux waved his arm towards the examining table to indicate the body of the latest victim. “But it just isn’t possible. It’s like they all drowned in a lake without ever being near a lake.”

“Have you ever heard of the Bledsoe curse, Dr. Devaraux?” Dean asked. The coroner looked slightly taken aback at the abrupt change in the conversation.

“Most everyone around here has heard of the Bledsoe curse, agents,” he replied, cautiously. “They’ll say it’s what’s causing these deaths. People enjoy a little superstition in their life, I suppose.”

“You don’t believe these deaths have anything to do with the curse, then?” Sam asked. Dr. Devaraux’s expression became more guarded as Sam and Dean both continued to look at him steadily. “Well...well, no…” the coroner finally answered.

 “There were several unsolved deaths in this county in 1986, Dr. Devaraux. Were they also caused by pulmonary edema?” Dean asked.

“I actually did check on that, agents,” he admitted. “Not because I believe the stories or anything, I was just curious. The cause of death listed for those victims was in fact pulmonary edema, although I can’t verify what type of fluid was found in the lungs.”

Dr. Devaraux paused, obviously wanting to say more so Sam and Dean waited.

“Did you agents realize there were also deaths in 1959 that were never explained?” he eventually continued.

 “We did realize that, Dr. Devaraux,” Dean said, both he and Sam maintaining looks of benign interest. “Let me guess, pulmonary edema?”

“Yep, same listed cause of death,” Dr. Devaraux said. “Nothing about it makes much sense. I’m not a superstitious person myself, but something odd is definitely happening.”

“Thank you for your time, Dr. Devaraux. Call us immediately if you find anything new.” Sam made the request in a polite but firm tone that suggested Dr. Devaraux should jump to whatever the FBI requested. He handed the coroner his business card. “And also call if you have any additional victims fitting the pattern.”

He and Dean left the station without speaking to the sheriff again, nodding curtly at Deputy Daniels as they walked out.

“Dry land drowning, huh?” Sam said when they were back in the Impala. “You think it has to do with White Pine being intended for flooding?”

“I think that’s exactly what it’s about,” Dean answered. “I think we’re dealing with a spell that was supposed to save the community from the government dams. And I guess these lives are the cost.”

“I don’t know. Pretty steep price to save a community that turned into a ghost town anyway.”

“Well, Sammy, no one ever accused witches of being too bright.”


	11. Cunning Folk

Norris, Tennessee 1931

   
Jonas could hear hollering from inside the community building when he was still a hundred yards away. He gritted his teeth against the surge of sick feeling in his gut and forced himself to continue on. Three times since the TVA representatives had come, the men of the community had gathered to discuss what they were going to do. Everyone had referred to them as meetings the first couple of times, but they hardly seemed to dignify that level of designation anymore. The first time they met, some of the wives and kids had even come, but it had quickly become obvious that the gatherings were no place for women or children. Two nights ago, the first punches had been thrown. Lord only knew what would happen tonight.

Most everyone had suspected from the beginning, or come to realize very quickly, what their options were. Take the offered buyout payments and move, or refuse the offered buyout payments and move anyway without a red cent to your name. The United States government, in the form of the Tennessee Valley Authority, had spoken – and that was the end of it.

There was a small group in the community that refused to accept that, though. These men fumed and yelled. They suggested armed uprisings and accused the other men of being weaklings and cowards. That was the point in the last meeting where Tom Matthews had punched Dan Tipton in the nose, and only the intervention of several cooler heads had kept the whole thing from devolving into a knock-down drag-out fight.

Dan Tipton was yelling again when Jonas stepped into the room and slid quietly into a back pew. From the size of the crowd, it looked like several families had decided to forgo any more of the meetings. Jonas wished he could have done the same, but his father insisted that without some rational intervention, there was no telling what the gang of diehards might get up to.

“Don’t tell me to sit down!” Dan Tipton bellowed. “Our whole lives are bein’ yanked out from under us, and all you say is there ain’t nothin’ we can do! There’s gotta be somethin’ we can do!”

“There is somethin’ we can do, Dan,” Everett Bledsoe stood, and Jonas winced inwardly to see his mild-mannered father addressing the hothead. “We can take the money they give us, and we can start over somewhere else. It surely won’t be easy, but ain’t no one here afraid of hard work.” For a moment, Dan just stared at him malevolently, his face red and contorted with rage. Then, in an instant, his face seemed to crumple, the color draining from it, the anger replaced with an almost childlike bewilderment. The man looked broken, and Jonas looked away, ashamed for him.

“Start over where, Everett? You really think they’re gonna pay me anything for that land of mine? Only thing makes it worth anything is these right here.” He held out his hands. They were rough and hard as old boards, scarred and blistered, the knuckles swollen and cracked. They were the hands of a man who had spent his whole life clawing a living for himself and his family out of poor, stingy ground. And Dan was right, his land wouldn’t appraise for anything. “How am I gonna get any more land? And what can I do other than farmin’, Everett? Where am I supposed to go? To the mines?”

 Jonas’ father sat down. Every one of the men there dropped his gaze to the floor. They were as strong a group as you would ever find, but to them the coal mines were like a horror story you told a frightened child. The thought of descending into the earth as the sun came up, and rising out again as the sun went down – covered in black coal dust, coughing it up from your lungs – was like a vision of hell on earth. No one wanted to admit to the likelihood of many of them having to move to the surrounding coal mining towns in search of work.

“Dan…I didn’t mean…” Everett Bledsoe started haltingly, but then Travis Muse spoke over him.

 “I reckon it’s time we talk to Granny Caughron. She’s cunning folk, ain’t she?” It was as though an electric shock had run through the gathering. Where it had been silent only seconds before, everyone now began talking at once.

Granny Caughron, Ellie’s grandmother, was known throughout the community for homemade remedies for aches and pains and coughs. She occasionally did a rain spell if the crops were in significant peril, and it was an open secret that she made love potions. It was even rumored that she could be persuaded to do a mild curse hex if she was convinced that the recipient was deserving and the pay was sufficient. The idea that she could do anything for this situation seemed ridiculous, though, and most of the men began shouting Travis down immediately.

But Travis and a few of the others began recounting tales they had heard from parents and grandparents about the power that some cunning folk could wield – stories of riches and glory and of death and destruction. Why couldn’t Granny Caughron wield that same power? They’d all seen her multitude of old spell books, hadn’t they? Who knew what kind of sorcery was available for the asking? Why couldn’t she do something to stop the dam, to stop the destruction of their homes?

Jonas’ Uncle Roy finally made himself heard over the cacophony of voices.

“Ya’ll ain’t considerin’ one real important thing here,” he said, his voice heavy with warning. “My father had a great-aunt that could do some spell work, and he told me there was one thing about cunning folk practice that you couldn’t never forget. Everything has a price.” Uncle Roy stopped and looked around at the men gathered there before him – the men who made up the community he had grown up in and lived in his whole life. “Somethin’ this big, what do you reckon the price would be for that?”

“I say we find out, then,” Travis Muse said quietly. “Savin’ our homes would be worth an awful lot, don’t ya think?” He had a knowing look on his face that said he had some understanding of Uncle Roy’s warning, but chose to disregard it.

Several of the men made noises of agreement, while several others shook their heads and grunted in dissension. Voices began to swell again in argument. Uncle Roy walked silently out the door. Jonas quickly stood and followed him, catching up to him just at the bottom of the front steps of the building.

“Uncle Roy, you think there’s any chance Granny Caughron could do anything?” Jonas asked. His uncle turned to him with a look of profound sorrow.

“I don’t know, Jonas, I really don’t know. But I hope to God they don’t go lookin’ to find out. If they find out it’s possible, I don’t know what’s gonna stop ‘em then.”

“Stop them?” Jonas asked. “If she could really do something, why would you want to stop them?”

“My warning about the price of something that big, you heard that, right Jonas?” Uncle Roy stared at him until Jonas nodded his head. “Well I wasn’t talkin’ about money, boy. There’s a name for a spell to do something like that. The cunning folk call them blood spells. And they’re not talking about cow blood or pig blood, neither. Something that big, I don’t know how much it might cost…” His voice trailed off.

‘You mean cost in a person’s blood?” Jonas asked, horrified.

“That’s what I mean. And Travis Muse and some of those others know about that cost. I’m afraid they just don’t care.”


	12. Chapter 12

Norris, Tennessee 2016

 

Dean and Sam turned into Julie’s driveway at 6:30 pm, invited to be there this time. They had left her house that morning at around 3:00 am, not too long after she had informed them that someone else had died. Her distress had been obvious, as was her inability to discuss the situation right then.

“If this isn’t something you’re causing, then we want to help you,” Dean had explained. “Like Sam said, we’re not regular ghost hunters. We can help. And maybe no one else will have to die.”

“I promise,” she had told them, “no one else will die tonight. It never happens more than once in a night.” Dean and Sam had opened their mouths simultaneously to begin asking questions, but then closed them abruptly as Julie looked up at them with tears streaking her face. “Not right now, please…I just can’t. I’ll explain tomorrow. Mom and Dad and I will explain everything we know tomorrow.”

That instantly created even more questions – what did her mother and father have to do with this? what all could they explain? – but the pleading look on Julie’s face again kept them from pursuing an interrogation. They promised to return later, and also explained that they would be doing some investigating of their own in the meantime.

“Just remember,” Sam cautioned. “If you see us anywhere other than your house, you’ve never met us before.” And so Julie was left with several questions of her own.

Dean and Sam had then driven straight to the cabin and replaced the loathsome crucifix exactly where they had found it. After that, Dean had successfully gotten a solid five hours of sleep, nightmare free, before they showed up at the sheriff’s office as Agents Riggs and Murtaugh.

Now, they had arrived at Julie’s house once again. Jim and Anne Ogle, Julie’s parents, were there also, as was Isaac. Julie proudly introduced her son to Sam and Dean, and he bashfully shook their hands. After that, as they sat at the table eating the meal that Julie had prepared, he simply stared at them, wide-eyed, whenever he thought they weren’t looking. Julie had made meatloaf and mashed potatoes and green beans – a real live home-cooked meal – and Dean and Sam both ate appreciatively, Dean especially, in a way that Julie found oddly gratifying. No one mentioned the real reason the Winchesters were there, instead making small talk about the town as though they were visiting tourists. Dean and Sam figured they were waiting for Isaac to be sent out of the room.

As he put a large bite of meatloaf in his mouth, Dean turned to find the little boy watching him. He chewed with exaggerated enjoyment as Isaac watched, obviously torn between looking away and giggling. Eventually, he giggled. Dean motioned to Isaac’s plate, which had not been touched, and raised his eyebrows, clearly asking why the young boy wasn’t eating. Isaac shrugged.

“Isaac, honey, sit up straight,” Julie said, reaching over to push down the one leg that Isaac had propped up in his chair. “You need to eat if you want to go downstairs and play.” Isaac sat up straighter and snuck another look at Dean. Dean met the little boy’s gaze and nodded towards Julie, grimacing in mock concern. He then quickly picked up a large forkful of mashed potatoes and shoved them in his mouth, nodding at Isaac proudly as though to say “see what a good boy I’m being.” Isaac giggled again then began eating his food, also.

Dean turned to see Julie smiling at him, and he winked at her conspiratorially. To her amazement, she felt herself blush. _Oh my goodness – what are you, twelve?_ Soon, Isaac had cleared about half his plate. He reached over shyly and tugged at Dean’s sleeve, pointing at his accomplishment. Dean wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips in assessment and then nodded that it looked like a pretty good job. Isaac popped to his feet immediately. The two strangers were entertaining, but downstairs he had a scooter and an almost wide open basement.

“May I be excused, Mommy?”

“Yes, take your plate to the kitchen, please, and then you can go downstairs and play,” Julie said.

“Okay. Bye Mr. Dean, bye Mr. Sam. Nice to meet you.” Isaac said, proud that he had remembered everything. Sam grinned and nodded at him, impressed, and Dean gave him a thumbs up.

“Nice to meet you, too, Isaac,” Dean said, and the little boy and his mother both beamed.

Once he was gone, though, a gloom seemed to descend on the adults. Now for the reason the Winchesters were actually there. Mr. Ogle pushed his chair back from the table and started without preamble.

“So why were you boys knockin’ at my daughter’s door at 2:00 this morning?” he asked. Apparently, Julie had not told her father the exact circumstances of their early morning encounter. Dean and Sam were both grateful to her for that.

“We tried to burn the crucifix, Mr. Ogle, the one from the cabin,” Sam said. “Didn’t turn out too well.”

“No, I bet it didn’t. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t warn y’all about that,” Mr. Ogle responded. “I reckon Julie told you about her dreams. We don’t know what them, or that crucifix, or the Bledsoe place have to do with each other. Sayin’ anything to you boys would of sounded crazy.”

 “Crazy is pretty much what we do, so you have to tell us everything you do know,” Dean said. “We can help figure out what they all have to do with each other. We’re not really ghost hunters like you might have seen on TV. We’re a little more than that. I think you suspect that already, Mr. Ogle. I think that’s why you talked to us in the first place.”

 “Well, I kinda hoped you might be. Last time this happened, someone showed up to help, and Anne reckoned he might have done the trick, but now…” his voice trailed off, but Sam and Dean were looking at each other in amazement. Could their father have met Mr. Ogle?

“Mr. Ogle, who showed up when this happened before?” Sam asked.

“The name was Winchester – remembered it because of the gun of course…”

“That was our father, Mr. Ogle. We’re Sam and Dean Winchester – John Winchester’s sons,” Sam said.

Mr. and Mrs. Ogle looked shocked, Julie just looked confused.

“I didn’t actually meet…” Mr. Ogle started to say, but Mrs. Ogle interrupted him.

 “I met him,” she said, looking between Sam and Dean in wonder. “Your father was a good man, boys, and he tried to help. He told me he was some kind of hunter, and he thought he had broken the spell, but I reckon it didn’t work.”

“Well, his journal said he tried a purification ritual, but apparently he didn’t feel too sure of it himself.  He didn’t do much write-up of the case at all – like it was still an open investigation,” Sam explained.

“He’d only been a hunter for a few years back then,” Dean put in, anxious as always that no one think less of John Winchester. “He learned a lot more after that, we all learned a lot more.”

“What in the world are you all talking about?” Julie asked, completely baffled. Dean and Sam gave her a quick explanation of what a hunter was. They told her how they had been brought up in “the family business”, and that their father had died but his journal had led them to investigate the mysterious happenings in Norris.

“And you seriously go looking for things like that?” Julie stared at the Winchesters, appalled. Most people really had no desire to know that every horror story they had ever heard could actually be true, but sometimes there was no other choice.

“It’s our job,” Dean said with a shrug. “And it was Dad’s job.”

“Well, back in 1986, your father came to investigate the deaths in town, and found me at Eliza’s funeral,” Mrs. Ogle said. “He was askin’ about the Bledsoe curse, what with people in town talkin’ about it and all, and I told him what I knew. But we didn’t even realize at the time that it had already passed on to me.” That statement threw almost everyone into a state of confusion. It took over an hour, and Julie fetching some paper for Sam to make a diagram on, before they felt like they had the story straightened out.

 

***********************

 

Eliza was Jim’s sister, and she had committed suicide in 1986. That was the funeral where John Winchester met Anne Ogle. But the story actually started several years before that with Jim and Eliza’s mother, Elizabeth Rice.

Elizabeth had married Isaac Ogle in 1953 and started a family. They had two young children, Eliza and James, when the mysterious deaths had occurred in Norris in 1959. Many years later, Elizabeth’s family would find that she had been plagued by the same kind of dreams that Julie was now having. At the time of the deaths, however, Elizabeth had remained silent, bewildered and disturbed by the nightmares, but certain that she was in no way responsible for the deaths.

It was only when her oldest child, Eliza – a grown woman with a husband and children of her own – had come to her, terrified, that she had admitted what had happened all those years ago. It was 1986, and Eliza had begun having the same dreams. And people had been mysteriously dying again.

 “It was a terrible time for Eliza,” Mrs. Ogle said sadly. “It wasn’t a happy marriage between her and David, her tryin’ to raise three little kids, and then these nightmares started. I knew somethin’ was awfully wrong, but it was ages before she would tell me anything.” Mrs. Ogle explained that three people had already died when Eliza finally came to her, half crazed. Eliza had told her about the dreams and then begged her sister-in-law, who had no children, to take care of Eliza’s three children if anything should happen. Terrified at what she considered signs of a mental breakdown, Anne had turned to Eliza’s mother for help. Her reaction when she mentioned the dreams had made Anne immediately suspicious. Anne had urged Eliza to speak to her mother.

Eliza had questioned her mother for every detail of what had happened to her all those years ago. She had finally pieced together that her mother had dreams coinciding with each of the three strange deaths. What was more, there was apparently some link to the electrical storm that struck the town that spring. The storm had been unlike anything Norris had ever experienced, wild and violent and responsible for eighteen deaths itself. Under her daughter’s interrogation, Elizabeth had tried to describe what had happened to her at the time of the electrical storm, but she wasn’t very successful. “It just took hold of me,” was the best she could manage. Stroke or seizure was what the doctors at the time had said, and it had put her in a coma for over two weeks.

“I remember that, momma,” Eliza had said. “I had just barely turned five, but I remember when you were sick.”

“It stopped after that, ‘Liza,” her mother had told her, her voice sad and weary. “It stopped, and I thought it was all over.”

But it wasn’t over.

“Eliza came back and told me what her mother said, told me about how the deaths had happened before. She said it must pass somehow from one family member to another,” Mrs. Ogle reported. “I wish I had done somethin’ then, but Eliza seemed like she felt so much better, so much calmer. I had no idea it was because she had come up with a plan that she thought would put an end to it all.”

Mrs. Ogle had to stop at that point, her voice catching as she dabbed at her eyes. Mr. Ogle patted her hand comfortingly and picked up a bit of the story. He had been working overseas for a government contractor. He hadn’t even been able to make it back for his sister’s funeral where John Winchester had come looking for information. The tragic suicide of a young mother in the midst of all the mysterious deaths had just seemed too coincidental. John had found Mrs. Ogle, and she had confided in him about the strange family happenings.

 “I told him I didn’t know why in the world it was called the Bledsoe curse,” Mrs. Ogle continued, “but somehow my husband’s family was connected to the deaths – not responsible, but connected. He wanted to talk to Jim and Eliza’s mother, but bless momma’s heart, she just left this world when Eliza killed herself. She lived on for several months, but she never spoke another word.” Mrs. Ogle had to pause again and wipe teary eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Anne,” Sam said gently. Dean looked at Julie, his eyebrows raised, wondering if Mrs. Ogle was going to be able to make it through the story, but Julie nodded encouragingly.

“Tell them the rest, Mom. It’s okay,” she urged.

“Well, your father, John, tried something that he hoped would break the spell – reckon it was whatever that ritual was y’all said before.” Mrs. Ogle said, looking up at Sam and Dean, her eyes still teary. “It was about a week later, after your father had already gone, that I had the first nightmare and then another one right away. And then came the tornado. They had to bring Jim home then ‘cause I was in the hospital, and they didn’t know if I was gonna pull through or not.”

“And meanwhile, she’d been trying to take care of me,” Julie said, leaning over to squeeze Mrs. Ogle’s shoulders and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Eliza was my mother. When she died, my father took my two younger brothers and moved back to his family place in Alabama. Like Mom said, he and mother hadn’t gotten along well, and I don’t think he was too anxious to raise her daughter. Mom and Dad hadn’t been able to have children, so they adopted me.”

“You were already like my own,” Mrs. Ogle said, returning Julie’s hug gratefully. “Thank the Lord, I did get better. I told Jim everything as soon as I could. How Eliza thought it was passed in the family, but how it just switched right over from her to me, and me not even blood kin. It’s still in the family, though, that’s for sure. It’ happenin’ all over again to my baby girl…”

“I would do anything to stop it,” Julie said. “Mom and Dad told me the whole story when I was eighteen, just in case. So I already know that me being dead wouldn’t help anything.” Her matter-of-fact tone made Dean angry – angry at whatever evil was haunting the family, angry that Julie had apparently gone so far as to think through the implications of sacrificing herself.

“Well, if Sam and I can help it, no one else is going to have to die,” he said.

“But we have to figure out why this all started, why Elizabeth Ogle ever had the dreams to begin with and why people started dying,” Sam said. “Dean and I have a theory, actually.” He explained about their visit to the police station and their discussion with the coroner. Julie and the Ogles seemed a little taken aback when Sam mentioned that he and Dean had been impersonating federal agents, but the casual law-breaking was forgotten as soon as Sam mentioned that lake water had been found in all of the victims’ lungs.

 “That’s the dream!” Julie cried, looking to her mother for confirmation. “That’s the dream – every time, holding someone face down in the lake while they’re struggling and kicking, and then they go still and the body turns over…” she trailed off, a look of horror in her eyes. Mrs. Ogle finished for her.

“And there’s no face, just a mouth, and the lake water is boiling and foaming in the mouth,” she said. Dean and Sam were both nodding. What Julie and Mrs. Ogle were telling them about the dreams could certainly support their theory.

“We think it has to do with the dam,” Dean said. “We think that god-awful crucifix was used in a witch’s spell, so it’s carrying some kind of evil residue. We think the spell was to keep White Pine from flooding.”

“But it was still abandoned,” Mr. Ogle pointed out in bewilderment. “Why would someone want to do a spell to save it and then leave it anyways?”

“We’re not exactly sure on that part yet,” Dean admitted.

 “Is there any one in town we could talk to?” Sam asked. “Anyone who might really know the history of the community?”

“You want to talk to Stephen Millsaps,” Mr. Ogle said, firmly. “Stephen knows more history of these parts than just about anyone.”

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Norris, Tennessee 1931

 

Ellie turned on her side, stretching her legs out, the ropes holding the mattress creaking as she moved, and tried to find some comfortable way to sleep. Rain drummed on the slope of the roof just a few feet away from her side of the bed, and thunder rumbled off in the distance. Truth was, Ellie felt terrible no matter how she laid – or sat, or stood. She was at that point where only one thing would bring relief and that would be getting their little bundle of joy out of her exhausted body.

 “You okay, Ellie?” Jonas whispered next to her. He wasn’t sleeping either. Between Ellie’s discomfort and their impending evacuation, precious little sleep had been achieved by either of them over the past two weeks.

“I’m fine. It’s just my back, sugar.” Ellie spoke softly over her shoulder. Jonas turned towards her and began to rub the small of her back, his thumbs kneading just above her hip bones, and Ellie sighed appreciatively. She began to relax as Jonas continued, the pain and tension in her back and legs relieved somewhat by his massaging touch. The drumming of the rain continued on the roof, and Ellie deliberately turned her thoughts away from the forced move, choosing instead to focus on the baby that could be arriving any day. He was so strong and healthy, she was sure of it from his movements, and she just knew that Jonas was going to be so pleased to have a son.

Every instinct in her body told Ellie that this baby was a boy, and she was anxious to find out that she was correct. They had a name picked for either case, but Ellie just knew that they’d only need the boy’s name. She drifted somewhere between waking and sleeping and dreamily thought about what he would look like. She pictured a little tow-headed fellow trailing behind Jonas as he went about his chores, and was too drowsy to notice that she was picturing their homestead now, not wherever they might be when the baby was actually big enough to follow Jonas around. Would their son have eyes as pretty as Miriam’s? She was certain Miriam would be crazy about him. They had celebrated the little girl’s fifth birthday just that day, and she had wished that baby brother could be born right away. Ellie smiled to herself remembering Miriam’s joy at the ragdoll she had received from her mother and father. It would do until her real baby brother came along.

Her reverie was broken when Jonas’ hands stilled, and he sat up in bed.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what? I can’t hear anything with this rain, sugar. It’s probably just the wind,” Ellie answered. But Jonas was already climbing out of bed, pulling his pants on as he began to stand. Ellie turned laboriously towards him. She did hear something now. Horses? A wagon?

Jonas had just finished dressing when the pounding began on the front door.

“Stay here,” he snapped at Ellie as he pushed quickly past the quilt that divided their room from Miriam’s. Ellie heard him hit one step on the ladder and then jump the rest of the way to the main floor. She pulled herself up, too, rolling off the bed to her hands and knees without Jonas there to help her up. She used the bed to pull herself to standing, listening to the mix of loud and discordant voices that had started downstairs. Was that her father’s voice she could hear?

Ellie hurried to the ladder, sparing a second for a quick glance at Miriam still sleeping soundly in her bed, and sat cautiously on the edge of the loft opening, waiting for Jonas to come and help her down. It was her father’s voice she had heard, and she could hear her mother crying now, nearly hysterical.

“Momma…momma, what’s wrong?” Ellie called, her heart clenching with fear – had something happened to one of her sisters?

Instantly, Jonas was there at the ladder, helping her down into the main room. Her mother was seated at the table, her eyes wild with fear, her breath coming in ragged sobs. Aunt Alice stood beside her, patting her shoulder comfortingly, and Ellie’s two young cousins stood silently next to the fireplace looking sleep-dazed and bewildered. They were all dripping wet, having traveled through the storm outside, and everyone’s skin looked pale and ghostly. Ellie started to move to her mother’s side, but then her eyes caught her father, standing with his shotgun just inside the doorway with Uncle Ed, and the look on his face frightened her more than anything she had seen or heard so far.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What’s happened?”

“They came for your grandmother,” Bill Caughron said, his voice hard as nails. “Beat your uncle and run ‘em all out of their own home.”

Who was her father talking about? Who had come for Granny? Ellie couldn’t make sense of anything. Her eyes darted from her cousins’ ashen faces to her sobbing mother then to Aunt Alice, her face stricken also, and then to Uncle Ed. For the first time, she noticed the blood that stained one side of his head and neck.

“Ellie, we’ve got to go.” Jonas was in front of her, carrying a barely awake Miriam in his arms. He must have climbed up to get her as soon as he helped Ellie down. “We’ve got to go right away.”

All of the snippets of conversations, the meaningful looks exchanged over her head, everything that had been swirling around her over the past couple of weeks – things that everyone had tried to shield her from, things that Ellie had agreeably remained blind to – came crashing down on her head. Travis Muse and Dan Tipton and the men that had joined with them, that was who had come for her grandmother. They believed she could do some magic that would save their land, and they and their families had been hounding her relentlessly for the past two weeks.

But if they had taken Granny Caughron, why were Uncle Ed and Aunt Alice here? And why was her mother so upset? They wouldn’t hurt Granny, they wanted something from her.

“I don’t understand, Jonas” Ellie said. “Why do we have to go?”

“The spell, Ellie. They want Miriam for the spell.” Aunt Alice was the one who answered her question as Ellie’s mother buried her head in her hands to muffle her crying. “Your granny said it would be family, but we never dreamed…a child…Granny told them she wouldn’t do the spell…”

“But they wouldn’t listen,” Uncle Ed said, disbelief and horror in his voice. “They’ve got themselves so worked up…like a pack of wild dogs…I just ain’t never seen nothin’ like the way…”

Jonas spoke over him, addressing Ellie’s father, but his gaze never left Ellie’s face, his eyes locked with hers.  

“You brought the wagon, right Bill?” he asked. “Ellie’s gonna need the wagon, but I’m gonna take Miriam ahead on horse. We gotta be able to go fast.” Bill Caughron nodded and moved to open the door for Jonas. Miriam had awoken a little more now, and she looked around at all the faces in the lantern light, faces harsh with fear and urgency. She began to cry for her mother, and Ellie reached out towards her even as Jonas started to turn away.

“Wait…my Little Rabbit…” Ellie began, but she never finished. A pain tore through her with blinding fierceness, and she felt wetness cascade down her legs. She cried out, the pain pulling her down to her knees and every eye turned to focus on her. “The baby…” Ellie panted. “I think the baby’s coming…”

Everyone moved at once. Miriam, wailing now for her mother, was handed off swiftly to her grandfather as Jonas knelt to help Ellie to her feet.

“Bring her over to the table, Jonas, I’ll get bedding down from the loft,” Mrs. Caughron said, wiping the tears from her face as she moved briskly to the ladder in the corner, marshalling her despair into action for her daughter.

“No – no!” Ellie said, pulling away from her husband as forcefully as she could. The initial pain had subsided, but she could feel the next wave building already. Their little boy was insistent on making his entrance to the world as soon as possible. “I have to be in our bed. That’s where Miriam was born, and that’s where Isaac is going to be born, too.”

“Ellie, there’s no time!” Jonas snapped, his voice harsh, but Aunt Alice was already following Ellie’s mother up the ladder, and Uncle Ed stepped away from the door to help.

“No use to argue, boy,” Uncle Ed told him. “Just help me get her to where she wants to be and then be on your way.”

“Oh God…” Jonas groaned, despair in his voice. His mind was seething, too much was happening for him to know which way to move.

They had all been on edge for days now. Uncle Ed had spread word through the family about returning home from church last Sunday to find their home ransacked. They had quickly realized that the only thing missing was Granny Caughron’s spell books. The old woman had been living with them for several months now, and she had always guarded the books as though they were a great treasure, keeping them locked in a heavy chest. When she had seen the broken chest, seen that they were gone, she had been despondent, insisting that she had to have them back immediately. At first they believed it was just the loss of her prized possessions that upset her. No one had honestly considered that there was anything potentially dangerous in the writings.

But Granny insisted that there were powerful, malevolent spells in some of the books. If anyone discovered it, discovered what could be done, she was terrified of what might happen. Her fear had been strong enough that eventually Uncle Ed had talked to other family members. “She won’t say what she thinks might happen. She just mumbles about family and blood,” he had reported. It was all they could get from the elderly woman who seemed to have shrunken and grown immensely frail almost overnight.

No one, though, had been able to find any trace of the books. Lines had been drawn in the community. Those who felt that the evacuation was inevitable were on one side. Those who felt that they should do something to save White Pine were on the other. What that something should be was a mystery. That faction had become increasingly withdrawn and tight-lipped.

Tonight, the only thing Granny had been able to tell Uncle Ed and Aunt Alice before they took her was that they would be coming for Miriam next. And so the family had rushed to Jonas and Ellie, stopping only to get Ellie’s father as reinforcement since the home was on their way.

Jonas’ thoughts raged. Where had they taken Granny Caughron? How long would it be before they came to the cabin? The faster and further they could get Miriam away, the better Jonas would feel. But what about the rest of his family? There was no way Ellie could be moved now. Jonas’ heart wrenched at the thought of leaving her, but the idea of entrusting his Little Rabbit to anyone else’s care terrified him, too. Ellie could see the emotions racing across his face in that instant, and her voice broke into his thoughts.

“Go, Jonas – go now! I’ll be okay, Daddy and Uncle Ed will be here. We’ll be okay…” Ellie insisted. She was at the ladder, one foot on the first rung, when she was seized by another pain and crumpled against the wall, clinging to one of the upper rungs to keep herself aright, clamping her lips tightly against the moan that wanted to escape.

“Take Miriam, Bill!” Jonas hollered to Ellie’s father, coming to a sudden decision. He rushed to grab hold of Ellie. “Take Miriam, get the horse ready, and I’ll be right there.”

Bill Caughron just nodded, threw open the door, and hurried a crying Miriam towards the barn. Jonas and Uncle Ed worked together to get Ellie to the loft where she insisted on being. She was still panting from the last contraction, and they tried to be as gentle as possible as they lifted and moved her. Finally, Jonas was in the loft with Ellie in his arms.

“I’ll help Bill,” Uncle Ed hollered, and then he, too, was out the door.

Jonas lay Ellie on their bed just as another pain tore through her, and for a moment she clung to him, unable to keep a deep moan of pain from escaping this time. It felt like ripping his own heart out to leave her there, gasping for breath.

“Take care of her, please take care of her,” he begged her mother and aunt as his head disappeared through the loft opening.

Jonas made the door in three strides and stepped outside to see twenty or more people gathered there in front of the cabin. They were sodden from the storm, but the rain had stopped for now. Light from several lanterns swung throughout the group, seeming both to illuminate and to hide at the same time. Jonas’ gaze flew to the barn. He saw Uncle Ed crumpled there on the ground, and he saw Bill and Miriam, sitting astride the horse.

But they weren’t moving. Travis Muse stood beside them, holding the horse’s reins in one hand and Bill’s shotgun in the other.


	14. History Lesson

Norris, Tennessee 2016

 

Dean and Sam found Stephen Millsaps where Mr. Ogle said they probably would – at the county courthouse, laboriously sorting, annotating, and cataloguing bits of history. Not for the first time, Dean wondered how anyone could stand to spend their life poring over documents and photos and scraps of paper covered in barely legible writing. The effort sounded worse than any monster he and Sam had yet to encounter. Dean was not, however, lacking a high level of appreciation for the Stephen Millsaps of the world. The Winchesters were frequent benefactors of their compiled records, especially when it came to troubled historical events or burial locations.

“Mr. Millsaps?” Sam spoke to the man’s bowed head as he sat at a table in the basement of the courthouse, a laptop opened in front of him and a cardboard box beside him from which he had just removed a large, dusty ledger book.

The man looked up from the moldy book, and Dean and Sam were both surprised to see a young face, possibly late twenties or early thirties.

“Yes. Can I help you?” The man asked, his eyebrows rising quizzically at the sight of the two official-looking strangers.

“We had a few questions for you, Mr. Millsaps,” Sam said, as he and Dean both showed their FBI badges. “I’m Agent Riggs. This is Agent Murtaugh.” Stephen Millsaps’ eyebrows rose even higher, but he waved at the empty seats across the table in invitation.

“Uh, yeah…sure, agents. Have a seat. You can just call me Stephen. What can I help you with?”

“We were told you know a lot about the history of this area,” Dean answered gruffly as he and Sam sat. “You seem a little young to know a lot about the history of any area.” Stephen smiled, unoffended by Dean’s assessment.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. But I’m pretty good at what I do.”

“And what is that exactly?” Sam asked.

“Well, I sort of specialize in areas that may have lost a lot of their collective history due to natural or compulsory removal of people.”

“Like people forced off their land by the government?” Dean asked.

“Exactly. I’ve been working around here for about thirteen months now, researching Beech Grove, Buffalo, Rosedale, White Pine – all communities here in this county that were displaced for the TVA dams program. My research grant…”

“Great,” Dean interrupted. “Well, we happen to be interested in the White Pine community.” Stephen’s eyes lit up, clearly the subject of White Pine had piqued his interest, but then his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Well that one has been particularly intriguing,” he began, “but the FBI wants to know about a community that was abandoned over 85 years ago?” Stephen’s question was incredulous. “I don’t see how…”

“Why was White Pine displaced for the dams program but then never flooded?” Sam asked. He felt certain that if he could just get Stephen started, the historian’s urge to tell the story would overcome his understandable skepticism. And Sam was right – clearly the mystery of the “ghost town” was too good not to be expounded upon.

It remained a geographical mystery that White Pine had not flooded. And surprisingly little effort had been made to resolve the mystery. It seemed that the Tennessee Valley Authority had simply abandoned the area for over seventy years. Only in the last ten or so years had someone decided that the little community might have some tourist potential.

“The records from the TVA were amazingly sparse for White Pine compared to records that were maintained for other displaced communities,” Stephen reported. “Most of them had very detailed information about payments that were made for land, when property was officially vacant, police actions that had to be taken in some instances, all those types of records. For White Pine, practically nothing.”

“Nothing?” Dean repeated. “Like, nothing nothing?”

“There was a list of property owners and one date when the entire community was declared officially vacant,” Stephen answered. “That was it. Now, I’ve found plenty of other historical records for White Pine prior to the displacement, of course. All the usual public records were here at the county courthouse, and there were also journals and letters and other memorabilia scattered here and at the library. But so far…”

His voice trailed off, and Dean and Sam could see him struggling to continue. They waited silently as Stephen grappled with his thoughts. After a moment, their patience was rewarded.

“Okay, truth is I’m really pretty confused about the White Pine community. Like I said, this sort of research is my specialty,” Stephen continued. He described how most small communities in an area would have very intertwined histories. Marriage certificates, and property deeds, and letters, and hundreds of other pieces of paper all bore evidence to the links that existed between the populations. When communities were displaced, the evidence links were often lost or scattered even though the relationships remained.

“So when I say I specialize in displaced communities,” Stephen told them, “a lot of what I do is try to tie together the fragmented links.” He held his hands out in front of him with fingers splayed.

“You had ties back here where the communities existed,” Stephen wiggled the fingers of his right hand, “and you have those ties continuing where the people resettle.” Here he wiggled the fingers of his left hand.

“My job is to connect those links back together,” Stephen said, sliding his fingers together so that they intertwined. “And I’ve had a lot of success doing that with the other communities in this area. But White Pine…” He pulled his hands apart again and dropped the left hand to the table. “It’s almost like there’s nothing there to connect to. It’s unbelievable, like the people of the community just vanished.”

Sam and Dean exchanged looks. It wasn’t quite what they had expected to hear, but it was a possible explanation for the abandonment of the community. Unlike Stephen, Sam and Dean did not consider the idea of a vanishing community to be beyond the realm of believability. They had seen small communities wiped out even in recent history. Plus, witchcraft had a way of backfiring on its adherents, so that might explain what happened.

“I don’t guess that’s helped you all very much…” Stephen began, apologetically.

“No, actually you’ve been a lot of help,” Sam said. “We just have a couple more questions. Was there any history of witchcraft in the White Pine community?” Stephen blinked in surprise.

“Uh…yeah…yeah, a little bit. A couple of families that supposedly brought the practices over from the ‘old country’, mostly Scotland and Ireland for the settlers in this area. The most recent records I could find prior to the displacement mention an Eleanor Caughron who was still practicing some good luck charms and things like that.” Sam and Dean both nodded, sounded like what they might be looking for.

“And what can you tell us about the Bledsoe curse?” Sam continued. Again, Stephen seemed somewhat taken aback, but his historian’s love of a good narrative came through for them once more.

“I have found some references to that. Only on this side of the displacement, though. It doesn’t seem to be something that was ever mentioned when the White Pine community was actually in existence. The idea of the curse seems to be attached to the homestead of Jonas and Ellie Bledsoe…”

“So the whole idea of a curse started when the community was abandoned?” Dean quickly interrupted what he could see was about to become a very scholarly discourse.

“Looks like,” Stephen answered. “But no clues as to why that site got such a particularly bad reputation. Nothing seems to have happened there that didn’t happen to the rest of the homesteaders.”

“And what does the curse supposedly do?” Sam asked.

“Well, it kills people, just out of the blue it’s supposed…” Stephen’s eyes grew suddenly wide. “You’re here about the mysterious deaths, aren’t you? The FBI considers rumors of a decades old curse to be a lead?”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Millsaps,” Dean said as he and Sam both stood abruptly. Dean handed the young man one of his cards. “Let us know if you have come across any additional information.”

 

***********************

 

“You think Eleanor is our gal?” Dean asked as soon as they were in the Impala driving away from the courthouse.

“I think she’s probably our gal, and I think she either deliberately or accidently caused the spell to backfire,” Sam answered. He had already begun poring over a stack of papers that Stephen had given them, copies of lineage that he had pieced together for the White Pine community. Stephen’s best guess for burial locations had been either at a home burial site or in the graveyard behind the church building. “The spell succeeded in keeping the area from flooding, but the townspeople apparently didn’t survive to continue living there – or anywhere else. And for some reason the spell has been continuing to pop up through the years.”

“So I guess you know what we have to do, right?” Dean continued, and Sam nodded glumly.

As soon as they had left Julie’s house the night before, Sam and Dean had discussed their next steps. They felt certain they were dealing with a witch’s spell, but based on what Julie and the Ogle’s had told them it didn’t look like the witch was still alive. So the question was how to break a dead witch’s spell – a dead Scottish witch’s spell. Sam had been in favor of doing more research on their own, but Dean eventually got him to concede that their best option was just to call on the resource they had.

Now Sam suggested Rock-Paper-Scissors to see who would have to call her.

“No way, man,” Dean said emphatically. “Rowena is all yours to handle, Sam-u-el.” He stretched the name out into three distinct syllables the way Rowena pronounced it, and even added a horrible Scottish accent to boot. Rowena, mother of Fergus McCloud aka Crowley aka King of Hell, was a Scottish witch herself – a Scottish witch who was well over three hundred years old at this point. If anyone could help them in this situation, it would be her. But asking Rowena for help was always grating. She delighted in exasperating the Winchesters, particularly the tallest one.

Sam gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders as though preparing for battle. He thumbed down his contact list, ignoring his brother’s obvious enjoyment of the situation.

“You got her listed under B for ‘Best Witch’?” Dean asked, grinning at Sam as he waited for Rowena to answer. “Or maybe P for ‘Pain in the Butt’?”

“She’s under R for ‘Redheaded Bitch’. Now shut the hell up. No…no, not you Rowena…”

Dean could barely contain himself as he listened to Sam’s end of the phone conversation and the muffled voice from the other end of the line.

“It was like listening to you argue with an angry Scottish chipmunk,” he laughed once Sam had ended the call.

“So glad to amuse you,” Sam snapped as Dean tried to compose himself but continued to chuckle. “Anyway, if you feel like getting back to work…I sent her the pictures I’d taken, and she recognized the carvings on the crucifix. She finally agreed to send us an ingredients list and an incantation. She thinks it will break the spell if we do that and burn the witch’s bones, just like we suspected – and the crucifix.”

“What did she say about what happened when we tried to burn that thing before?”

“She said – and I quote – ‘well, obviously Sam-u-el, that’s because you didn’t do it right the first time, ya great dumb moose.” By the time he finished reporting Rowena’s words, in his own horrible Scottish accent, even Sam was laughing.

“Now we just have to figure out where we’re digging,” Dean said once they were back at the motel. “Give me some of those pages to look through.”

They had been scouring the lineage pages for nearly a half hour, when Dean let out a low whistle.

“Look at this, Sammy, this might explain the connection to the Bledsoe place,” he said handing over a sheet of paper. “Jonas and Ellie Bledsoe owned the cabin, right? Well, Ellie Bledsoe was a Caughron. Eleanor was her grandmother.”

“Maybe that’s it – maybe Eleanor was living with them when she did the spell or when it went bad,” Sam mused. “People eventually just associated the place with bad things and started calling it the Bledsoe curse.”  
             

“Could be she’s buried there,” Dean said. “And we have to get the crucifix anyway, so I guess we’re starting the night back at that cabin.”

They spent the afternoon gathering ingredients from the list Rowena sent and preparing them for the required incantation. After that, they returned to Julie’s house where the Ogles had come to pick up Isaac. The little boy had been having sleepover night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house since the dreams had started. His mother’s yelling and thrashing had terrified him, and they all knew it was likely to continue. Tonight, though, Isaac was not remembering how frightened he had been, he was just grumpy and unhappy about leaving his home and his mother again.

“Don’t make me go, Mommy,” he begged. “Can’t I just stay here with you? Whatever the bad thing was that scared you, I won’t let it happen again, okay?”

Julie and Anne both looked heartbroken at the little boy’s pleas. Dean knelt down in front of Isaac where he stood with his arms wrapped around his mother’s legs.

“Hey buddy, I heard you had a couple of guinea pigs that I didn’t get to meet last time. Can you introduce me?” Isaac immediately released his hold on Julie and grabbed Dean’s hand, pulling him towards the basement door. “You guys talk,” Dean said as he was pulled away.

While Dean and Isaac were gone, Sam explained to Julie and the Ogles everything he and Dean had discovered and what their plan was now. By the time the little boy returned he was ready to leave with his grandparents.

“Mr. Dean says I might only have to have a couple more sleepovers, Mommy!” he announced excitedly. “I can be a big boy and do that if it’s only a couple more.”

“You are my big boy,” Julie said, giving him a long good-bye hug. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You boys let me know if you need anything else tonight,” Mr. Ogle said as he left, a hopeful look on his face.

“Be careful,” Julie said, her gaze moving from Sam to Dean as they prepared to leave. “Isaac and I would be really upset if anything happened to you.” Dean just smiled at her and winked.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “we’re professionals.”


	15. The Spell

Norris, Tennessee 1931

 

Jonas stood there on his front stoop, and his insides turned to stone as he took in the scene. The strangest silence had fallen over the group. Miriam was barely whimpering, burying her face in her grandfather’s chest to escape the eerie vision there in front of her home. They were people she had known her entire life, but tonight they were strangers, terrifying specters. Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, and then a muffled scream sounded from inside the cabin.

“What’s that about, then?” Travis Muse broke the silence, jerking his head toward the cabin to indicate that his question was about the cry they had all heard.

“The baby’s coming,” Jonas replied, his words clipped as he fought to control his voice. He kept his eyes on Travis. He appeared to be the leader of the group. “What are ya’ll doin’ here, Travis?”

“Somethin’ that’s got to be done – for all of us. I reckon you know that.”

“Nothing’s got to be done,” Jonas said. His gaze swept over the crowd, searching for someone to make eye contact with him, but no one would. Jonas turned back to Travis. “Y’all can just leave right now. This don’t have to go any further.” Dan Tipton stepped forward from somewhere to Jonas’ left.

Jonas’ voice had been almost unnaturally calm while addressing Travis, but the look on his face as he snapped around to confront Dan caused the older man to take an involuntary step back. A low murmur ran through the group, weakness had been detected. Shamed, Dan stepped forward again, his face belligerent.

“Jonas, you better give some thought to the rest of the folk here in this community. Just ‘cause you and yours got the means to settle somewhere proper again don’t mean the rest of us do. You gotta think of your neighbors, too, boy.”

“Neighbors? Is that what you call yourselves, Dan – neighbors?” Jonas’ voice grew a little louder, the underlying strain becoming more obvious. “Ya’ll let my father-in-law and my little girl move on out of here, and then we’ll talk about neighbors.”

“Calm down, Jonas,” Travis spoke again. “Those TVA folk are gonna be back tomorrow, and we need to talk about what’s best for all of us.” His demeanor of cool rationality was more than Jonas could bear.

“Don’t you tell me to calm down,” he said, his voice cold and hard as steel. Jonas pointed around at the crowd of silent spectators. “Get these bastards off my property, and get your damn hands off my horse, and then I’ll calm down.”

Jonas stepped down from the front stoop. Travis had apparently been waiting for that, and he lifted his right arm in signal. Dan and three other men quickly surrounded Jonas. Several others moved in close to the horse where Bill and Miriam sat.

Two of the men grabbed Jonas’ arms and pulled them behind him. Dan and the third man hammered their fists and knees into Jonas’ body until he was doubled over helplessly. Then Dan landed several punishing blows to Jonas’ face.

Bill yanked on the horse’s bridle. The horse, her eyes already wild and rolling at the sight of all the bobbing lanterns and the tension she could sense, skittered and reared. Miriam screamed as her grandfather barely managed to hang on. The men backed away, but Travis still held the horse’s reins, and he yanked her down viciously and grabbed the bridle to restrain her.

“Shit! Get ‘em off the horse!” Travis bellowed. The men moved in again and shoved and pulled at Bill and Miriam while the horse continued to snort and skitter wildly. They finally managed to drag Bill half-off the horse and then wrench Miriam out of her grandfather’s arms. Someone clubbed Bill on the back of the head with a shotgun, and he tumbled the rest of the way off the horse. They left him lying there on the ground. Travis released the reins and slapped the horse on the hindquarters. She was all too glad to gallop away from the chaotic scene.

Dan and the others had tied Jonas’ arms behind him. When they released their hold on him, he fell to his knees, choking and retching. But he struggled to his feet almost immediately and began fighting his way through the gathered crowd in Miriam’s direction. Blood dripped into his left eye from a split brow, and he staggered a bit as he walked, but he never took his eyes off of his daughter. They were binding her hands and feet, a gag already tied in her mouth. Jonas could see silent tears pouring down her face as Paul Franks lifted her and took her to stand beside Travis.

“For God’s sake, Paul…” Jonas said, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “You can’t do this…you can’t…” His voice was wretched, and his gait was still weak and unsteady, but his eyes bored into Paul’s, willing him to stop, willing him to break the malevolent determination which seemed to have possessed them all.

“That’s far enough,” Travis said, still a bit breathless from his tug-of-war with the horse, when Jonas was a few yards away from him. He jerked his chin at the men behind Jonas, and Jonas felt brutal hands grasping his arms, restraining him. Another scream came from inside the cabin and then a thin cry, a newborn’s cry. Jonas felt desperation overwhelming him.

“Paul…please…you don’t want…” he made one last plea, his voice breaking.

“Nobody wants this, Jonas, but you’re just making it even harder than it has to be,” Travis spoke over him. “This is the only way to save White Pine, and we ain’t got no choice. This is what the spell calls for.”

Travis dropped his gaze for the first time, unable to look Jonas in the eye as he explained what the spell required. It had to be blood of the oldest sibling of the witch’s youngest relative – both a sacrifice and a symbol, the older giving life to save the younger.

“That baby is Granny Caughron’s youngest kin, so that means it has to be Miriam,” Travis said. He raised his eyes to meet Jonas’ once more. “We ain’t got no choice,” he repeated, in an almost pleading tone as though asking Jonas to be understanding. Jonas could hear the men behind him mumbling the same words. ‘We ain’t got no choice’ seemed to be their mantra, a vicious lie that they had convinced themselves was truth.

The fury and despair inside Jonas welled up in sudden strength, and he tore himself free from the hands that held him. He lunged towards Travis Muse in a white-hot rage. In that split second, Travis stepped back, swung Bill’s shotgun up, and fired. The blast caught Jonas square in the chest, throwing him back. He toppled to the ground, his lifeless eyes staring up at the roiling storm clouds.

“No!” The anguished cry came from the cabin doorway, where Aunt Alice and her sons stood.   
“What have you done? My God, what have you done?” she cried, her face stricken.

The accusation seemed to galvanize the men. They had killed Jonas Bledsoe. That was the truth. And there really was no other choice now. Travis began barking orders.

“Bring the witch over here! And no witnesses!”

Aunt Alice and the boys tried to run and were quickly shot down. They shot Bill Caughron and Uncle Ed where they lay. Someone dragged Ellie’s mother down from the loft and shot her as she tried to fight her way to her granddaughter’s side.

“What about Ellie and the baby?” Travis asked.

“Left ‘em,” was the reply. “The baby’s born, but it won’t last on its own. I reckoned maybe it needed to stay alive until after the spell’s done, anyhow. You could see Ellie’s bleedin’ out. They’ll both be gone on their own real soon.”

The sacrifice itself was the most difficult part. But they all kept livestock, and they had the appropriate tools for slaughtering. The knife they used was perfectly sharpened. Miriam felt very little pain, they felt certain, as they held a bowl under her throat to collect the blood. And when Miriam’s large brown eyes glazed over, they lay her almost tenderly next to her father.

The crucifix that had been carved in preparation was dropped in the bowl to soak up the blood, and Granny Caughron was brought forward to perform the incantation. The old woman seemed to have no idea where she was anymore, being led and directed like a small child. She mixed the ingredients, she placed the crucifix in the bowl with the mixture, she read the words, and then she looked at Travis expectantly.

Travis held the surveyor’s map. Dipping his finger into the blood, he drew an outline of the area that they wanted protected. Then he touched a lit match to the corner of the map and dropped it on top of the crucifix. A blinding flash of light exploded from the bowl as a tremendous shock wave blasted them all back several feet, throwing them to the ground. A seismic tremor rumbled through the earth beneath them. They stared at one another, wide-eyed.

“I reckon it worked,” someone said.

“Granny’s dead,” someone else reported, checking the old woman as she lay there on the ground. Thunder rumbled again, and a light rain began to fall. Their iniquitous work accomplished, the men scattered and disappeared into the night as silently as they had come.


	16. Breaking the Spell

Norris, Tennessee 2016

 

Dean and Sam had retrieved the macabre crucifix from the corner of the cabin loft and searched the surrounding grounds thoroughly without turning up any signs of a burial plot. They decided to continue to the White Pine community building which also served as the church and school building. They had seen the graveyard there on their first visit but had paid little attention to it other than a quick sweep with the EMF meters.

“Might as well walk,” Dean said. “Otherwise, we’ll have to drive out and around, and then I think the road up to the parking lot was gated nearly a half-mile out.” Sam agreed, and they gathered all the equipment they needed – shovel, spell ingredients, can of accelerant – and started hiking.

The moon was just past full, and it was a cloudless night; they almost didn’t need their flashlights when they arrived at the graveyard. They split up and began walking slowly up and down between the rows of gravestones, their flashlight beams illuminating family names and carvings.

“Does this graveyard seem strange to you?” Sam asked after a few moments.

“Strange like full-of-dead-people strange?” Dean responded. “Nah, I think that’s pretty typical.”

“No, smart-ass, I mean look at how all the gravestones are different sizes and styles up close to the building, and then back here they’re suddenly completely uniform.”

Dean swept his flashlight beam around. Sam did have a point. The last several rows of gravestones seemed to all match, right down to the style of engraving, and the fact that none of them had dates – just names. The stones even seemed to have the same amount of aging.

“Maybe it was some kind of disease that killed everyone off pretty quick?” Dean suggested. “Maybe that’s how the community ended?”

“Then who buried them all so perfectly like this?” Sam asked skeptically.

“Hm...well…that I don’t…care about anyway because I just found the one we’re looking for,” Dean’s thoughtful consideration segued into triumph. “I found it – you get to dig first, Sammy boy.”

“Good riddance,” Dean declared over an hour later when Sam completed the last portion of the incantation and dropped the burning pack of matches into Eleanor Caughron’s open grave.

“Oh crap, we forgot…” Sam started, flinching away from the opening. He had intended to say that they had forgotten about the crucifix lying inside the casket, but the accelerant had already burst into flames. Nothing happened. Flames roared up from the salted corpse, but there was no explosion, no shock wave. Dean, who had also backed off when Sam flinched, peered cautiously into the hole.

“I don’t even see it,” he reported. “I think it must already be burning. Cheers.” They stood, waiting for the fire to complete its work before they shoveled the dirt back into the hole. They were just finishing with the last few shovels of dirt when Sam cocked his head to one side.

“Do you hear that?” he asked. Sam began walking towards the front of the building, and Dean followed, the noise becoming obvious now. It was a low rumble, but it was building quickly.

They walked slowly into the town center, turning around in all directions, straining to figure out where the sound was coming from. It was swelling now into a roar.

“What the hell is that?” Sam yelled, but Dean had no reply.

The noise grew louder and fiercer by the second as Sam and Dean whipped around trying to find its source. It was so loud that it seemed to come from all around them, and it was impossible to pinpoint where it was originating from. Then the very ground began to tremble with the force of whatever was approaching. The roaring, crashing din drowned out their voices as they turned to one another in awful realization.

“Flood!” They both yelled in the same instant, though neither could hear the other one speak. The roar and the shaking of the earth suddenly made sense. A flood was tearing down the valley towards them, and, judging by the noise, it was enormous. They had nowhere to go and no means of escape.

Dean grabbed Sam by the arm and pointed back at the community building. It was situated on a point slightly higher than the rest of the buildings, plus it had an attic and a steeple which added some additional height. It wasn’t much of a chance, but it was the best they could do. The swelling roar was like a physical presence beating against their eardrums as they sprinted for the building.

The door was locked, but one kick from Dean splintered the old boards. Thankfully, they had checked out the building thoroughly on their previous visit and knew exactly where to find the narrow attic staircase. They clambered up and raced to the opposite end of the attic where the steeple was located. The moonlight coming through the small attic window barely illuminated a ladder climbing into the rafters. It lead to a trapdoor in the roof which must have once allowed access to the bell in the steeple.

Sam reached the ladder first and pulled himself up to find the trapdoor closed with a rusty bolt. After several frantic tries, he finally managed to shove the bolt out of the way. He flung the trapdoor back and pulled himself through the tight opening, twisting around the small bell that still hung there. Sam climbed out onto one side of the pitched roof and then worked his way around to the far side of the steeple. He straddled the slope of the roof and crouched to wrap his arms around the cross which topped the steeple and constituted the highest point in the valley.

Dean had climbed onto the ladder right behind Sam and was wriggling his way through the trapdoor, also. He pulled his lower body through, swung out onto the roof, and then glanced up.

“Son of a bitch…” he whispered, stunned at what he could see. A wall of water had just appeared around the bend into the little hollow where the White Pine community lay. The moonlight glinted on the churning mass as it tore along, taller than the buildings that lay in its path. Roiling and frothing, trees and boards and other dark objects swirling along behind the crest, it bore down on the creaky old structures. In an instant, Dean saw the general store engulfed. It exploded into debris which the oncoming torrent carried along as though it had been a pile of matchsticks. In the second that followed, Dean lunged towards the steeple, and Sam reached desperately for Dean’s hand.

The floodwaters demolished the community building. Just like the general store and the bank and every other structure before it, just like the trees and boulders that had stood in its path, the community building was helpless in the wake of the water’s inexorable power. Boards splintered and glass shattered, and the ruined fragments of the edifice were swept up in the chaotic advance of the floodwaters; the shrieking, booming noises of the dying structure just adding another layer to the overwhelming sounds of destruction.

Everything below the roof of the building was sheared away in an instant. But the few extra feet of elevation and the extra height of the attic meant that the roof of the building had stood just above the level of the maelstrom, and amazingly it was swept along still intact. But it spun and bucked like some insane version of a rodeo bull, and Sam was trying his best to keep his footing as chunks of debris – boards, doors, tree trunks – all spun around him. As the rooftop rose and fell on the swell of water, the pieces of flotsam bumped or slammed into his legs only to be swirled away to be replaced with other objects in the next instant. One arm clung to the increasingly wet wood of the cross while Sam’s other arm stretched out, his hand wrapped around Dean’s wrist just as Dean’s hand was wrapped around his.

At the last possible moment, Sam had caught his brother before he was torn away by the surge of water. Now Dean lay flat against the slope of the rooftop, the weight of his body, and Sam’s body leaned towards him, causing the roof to tilt down into the torrent so that Dean was almost completely submerged. Pieces of detritus heaved around him, slamming into his back and sides, and Dean was fighting just to keep his hand locked on Sam’s wrist and keep his head above water.

Having quickly demolished the tiny settlement, the floodwaters carried them now into forested areas. The rooftop was riding well back from the advancing head of the flood, but it was still moving swiftly. The valley was narrowing around them, and the water beneath them was like whitewater rapids churning at an ever increasing speed. The roof, their ungainly and unstable raft, was spinning more and more to the outer edge of the rapids. There, the water churned and broke over rocky outcroppings and large boulders. It swirled around trees, tearing off huge limbs and twisting them into the mix of chaos and debris. Sam could see that at any moment their rooftop could be crushed by falling timber or splintered against rocks. He had to get Dean back on his feet.

Sam leaned as far as he could towards Dean, allowing him as much leverage as possible to work with. Dean pulled against his brother’s weight, finally tugging himself up far enough to close his free hand around Sam’s arm just above the elbow. He pulled harder then, his legs frantically searching for some hold on the roof. Sam strained to curl his arm upward, dragging Dean further from the water. Sam’s other arm, hooked over and around the decrepit old cross, could feel the weakness in the dilapidated wood. He sensed that it could easily snap, but it was the only lifeline they had right now.

It seemed ages before Dean’s foot finally found some purchase on the rooftop, though it was really only a matter of seconds, but he was finally able to pull himself to a crouched position. He looked up at Sam, smiling in an instant of relief, only to glimpse Sam’s face contorted in horror at what he could see approaching. “Jump!” he could see Sam mouthing. “Now!” Without a moment’s hesitation, Dean released his hold on Sam’s arm, twisted around, and pushed off from the rooftop. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam following suit.

Instead of sinking into black water as he had expected, Dean’s breath was knocked out of him as he landed sprawled on solid ground. Sam landed just above him on the incline, and he was on his feet and half-leading, half-dragging Dean before his brother could even comprehend what was happening. Even above the din of the rampaging flood, they both heard the shattering noise of the rooftop crashing into the rocks to their right. Glancing over their shoulders as they staggered up the hill away from the water, Dean and Sam could see fragments of the now demolished rooftop hurtling away from them. It was easy to imagine what would have happened to them had they not jumped.

“Thanks, Sammy,” were the first words that Dean wheezed out when they finally lay collapsed on the ground well above the flood level, both gasping for air. His second words, groaned in hopeless resignation, were, “my Baby.” Sam winced at the misery in his brother’s tone. He sat up, his head spinning a bit.

“Dean, man, I’m sorry…” They both knew that if the Impala had been swept up in the flood, it was likely to never be found. “Can you move? Ready to get out of here?”

Dean sat up also and did a quick assessment of how he was feeling. Like he’d been in a prizefight with a tornado, he decided, but nothing seemed to be broken or out of joint. They began trudging through the woods, navigating by the moon and sheer luck, hoping that their route back to civilization would not be blocked by floodwaters. As they went, they were frequently forced to move to higher ground. The initial flash flood had passed, but the water wasn’t receding in its wake. Instead, it was continuing to gradually rise.

“Well, it looks like Rowena knew what she was talking about,” Sam said as they hiked uphill yet again. “This valley’s definitely flooding. I assume that means the spell is broken.” Dean just grunted an affirmative noise in reply. The adrenaline jolt of the emergency situation had long since passed, and his thought of having wrestled a tornado had turned out to be a vast understatement. Just as the sky began to lighten, they came out on a familiar gravel road. To their right, the road rose towards the Ogle’s house. To their left, it ran down towards the Bledsoe place where they’d left the Impala parked. After the briefest hesitation, Dean turned to the left.

“I’ve got to try, man,” he said by way of explanation, and Sam silently followed him. They walked on, cold and weary and aching, but unwilling to continue without knowing something about the car’s fate. They expected at any minute to encounter flood waters, but as they made the last turn to the Bledsoe place, they could see that although water was encroaching along the creek side the cabin was still standing there intact. And the Impala was sitting right where Dean had left it. Dean practically ran the last few yards.

  
“Oh, Baby, it is so good to see you,” he said ecstatically, running his hand lovingly over the car’s roof before getting in. Sam was so relieved, both for Dean’s sake and for the sake of the Impala itself, that he didn’t even make any cracks about giving Dean and the car some alone time if they needed it. He just slid gratefully into the passenger seat and relaxed back into the car’s familiar interior. Dean patted the wheel exuberantly then kissed his fingertips and touched them to the dashboard.

“Knew we couldn’t lose you, Baby,” he said with an exhausted smile.


	17. To The Victor

They drove directly to Julie’s house to deliver the news. When they knocked, she threw open the door almost immediately and launched herself into Dean’s cold, damp embrace. Dean hugged her tightly in spite of his miserable condition.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he whispered when he realized that she was crying. After a long moment, Julie released him and gave Sam a hug, also. Then she stepped back, laughing as she took in the sight of them, wiping tears from her face.

“I thought you must be dead,” she explained. “It’s on all the local channels, come and see.” Sure enough, every news station was reporting exuberantly on an earthquake and massive flooding which had occurred overnight. Thankfully, no injuries had been reported, but ‘the historic community of White Pine’ – as one fresh-faced reporter put it – had been completely lost to the floodwaters.

“It was you guys, wasn’t it?” Julie asked eagerly. “You really did it, didn’t you?” Dean smiled modestly.

“Yeah, we did.” Dean said. Julie beamed at him.

“How did you make it out of there?” she asked, incredulously, and Dean and Sam promised her a long, long story after they had cleaned up, patched up, and rested.

“Tonight, then?” Julie asked. “I have to get to work now, anyway – find out what my new assignment will be. I don’t think I have a job leading tour groups through White Pine anymore. I’ll let Mom and Dad know that you’re alright when I go by there.”

By the time Dean pulled into the motel parking lot, scarfing down the last of the sausage biscuit that they had stopped for, he and Sam were both feeling nearly dead. Dean got the shower first – by virtue of the ‘I’m the oldest, just shut up’ argument. And Sam let him win with that lame-ass logic simply because he knew that Dean had taken a worse beating than he had. He did not relent, though, in his insistence that Dean let him take a look at him once he was cleaned up. Dean’s injuries consisted mostly of places on his back and side where large bruises were already starting to develop, and several abrasions. There were only two places that Sam insisted he treat with antibiotic ointment – one long gash on his left calf and a puncture wound on his upper left arm.

“That hurt like a mother, dude. Stupid board with a nail in it I think…” Dean explained as he treated his arm. He continued when he saw Sam start to open his mouth. “…and yes, I really did get a tetanus shot last year.”

Sam quickly showered while Dean completed his bandaging and ransacking of their first-aid kit for pain killers and sleeping pills. As soon as Sam emerged from the bathroom and reported that his only injuries were some bruises and scrapes on his lower legs, Dean crashed.

When he woke, groggy and disoriented from a long but restless sleep, his first thought was of how absolutely starved he was. He sat up, his aching limbs and torso protesting a little, and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.

“What time is it, man?”

“It is 5:30 in the evening,” Sam answered crisply from his bed, where he was propped up on pillows, watching the continuing saga of the flooding on the news. “And you better be getting up because you have a 7:00 dinner date. Oh, and also there’s some leftover pizza if you want "

“I have a what, now?”

“A dinner date – at Julie’s house,” Sam explained as Dean stumbled to the pizza box on the end of Sam’s bed. “The invite was for both of us, but sadly, I’m just not feeling up to it tonight, so I won’t be able to join you.” Dean looked up, a half-eaten piece of cold pizza hanging from his mouth, and raised his eyebrows in question.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Sam said with a smile.

“I slept like crap, man, but that could make up for all of it,” Dean replied, grinning and talking around the pizza.

‘Don’t wait up, Sammy,” He called an hour later as he headed out the door.

Julie had fixed another home-cooked meal – chicken, roasted potatoes, glazed carrots – and Dean ate even more appreciatively than he had the first time. They talked about Isaac and about Julie’s husband who had been an Army helicopter pilot. He had been killed in a training exercise while she was pregnant. Dean talked about his mother and how she had just recently come back into his life.

When they moved to the couch, and Julie served homemade chocolate cake, Dean launched into the thrilling story of how they had found the gravesite, broken the spell, and escaped from the flood. Julie listened to it all wide-eyed. Dean couldn’t help but amp the story up a little for his admiring audience, but he still gave all the credit to Sam for getting them out alive.

“And then we drove to your house…” Dean finished, scraping the last bits of chocolate icing off of his plate and licking the fork.

“I just can’t believe a spell can do something like that,” Julie said. “I can’t believe there’s evil out there like that.” She scooted closer to Dean, took his plate from him and placed it on the coffee table, and then leaned in abruptly and kissed him.

“I like that,” Dean said, and his voice made her heart race. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering there, barely grazing her jaw. Julie scooted closer still.

“I’m glad there are good guys out there, too,” she said. “I knew you were one of the good guys the first time I met you, you know.” She smiled at Dean’s perplexed look.

“The first time you met me?” he asked. “You mean the time I totally lied to you about who I was and what me and Sam were doing?”

“Yeah, that time,” Julie responded, punching him lightly on the arm. “I saw you help those little old ladies with their walkers. You were adorable.” She laughed at Dean’s discomfited look. “It’s why I decided to say something about the crucifix. And it’s why I decided not to shoot you when I woke up to you guys in my bedroom.”

 Julie would have said more, but Dean’s hand was now trailing lightly along her neck and throat and she found herself suddenly distracted. He gently pulled her in for a longer kiss. Then the longer kiss led to her moving closer still. When she eventually broke away, nearly breathless, she was shocked to find herself practically sitting in Dean’s lap, her body pressed against his. Julie moved back quickly, blushing. She hadn’t been that familiar with a man in – _seriously?_ _I haven’t even made out with a guy since Jeff died. I don’t even know what I’m doing. And now I just jumped like a scalded cat. He probably thinks I’m crazy –_

But Dean’s expression was only gently curious. Well, curious and just a little bit _– oh_ _good lord it has been so long since a guy looked at me like that. I didn’t even know how much I missed it_ – He took her hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing lightly along the knuckles.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I…uh…maybe,” Julie replied with a nervous laugh. “After Jeff died, and Isaac was born, I didn’t really have time for anyone else. I didn’t want anyone else. But now…well, I’m not even sure I remember how to…” she trailed off, ducking her head as she felt her cheeks flushing even redder.

Dean had continued to hold her hand as she talked, and he rubbed his thumb along the knuckles that he had kissed.

“I like that,” Julie whispered after a bit, repeating his words from earlier. “I like that a lot.”

“Then I’ll just keep doing that,” Dean said. “Whatever you want, I’m not going to be disappointed, Julie. I promise. I just want to enjoy each other for a little while.”

She looked up, but couldn’t quite meet his eyes just yet. Her gaze lingered unconsciously on his lips – _oh…now how am I supposed to resist sweet talk like that?_ _Brain, right now would be a really good time for you to get in there and help a little, because the rest of you is about to make a full-blown idiot of yourself and doesn’t even care_ – Her cheeks were still pink with embarrassment, but her smile was flirtatious when she finally made eye contact with him.

“You are a damn fine talker, Dean Winchester,” she said.

“I amaze myself sometimes,” he replied, with an absurdly suggestive look on his face that made Julie laugh out loud. After that, it was easy to begin kissing again, to allow herself to stroke his arms and his back and his chest, to enjoy his hands as they stroked her in return, to press herself against his body and want to be even closer. 

“Come with me,” she said when the need to be closer finally overwhelmed her. She led him to the bedroom, then turned and smiled tentatively. His lips were moving, and her gaze again lingered there for a long moment. Was he asking her a question? She felt sure she should be paying attention and pulled her gaze away from his mouth.

“You’re sure?” Dean repeated, his face sober now.

Julie reached down and grabbed the bottom of her t-shirt. She pulled it up and over her head, fighting a little to get it over the mass of curls, then laughed at the surprised look on Dean’s face.

“Alright then, I guess you’re sure,” Dean said in a voice that made her shiver. Grinning, he pulled off his own shirt and then drew her towards him. One hand reached up to cup the back of her head while the other splayed against the small of her back, his fingers sliding under the waistband of her jeans. His lips, as they met hers, were warm and soft, and he teased at her mouth with gentle pressure.

Her hands clutched his shoulders as she melted against him. It turned out there was no need for her nervousness – her body had not forgotten anything.

 

**********************

 

_Sam’s face was so battered that he was barely recognizable anymore. Dean looked at his own hands and saw the split and bloodied knuckles, the surrounding skin tissue swollen and discolored. He could feel the pain throbbing through his hands, but he saw them as though he were observing a wild animal behind glass at the zoo. The hands did not seem to belong to him at all. They struck Sam again and again, and Dean knew that he must have shattered every bone in Sam’s face._

_The thing, the evil spirit or spell or possessing beast, was controlling him – providing him with a front row seat to his worst nightmare on display._

_"How does it feel, Sammy?” The being spoke, and Dean’s voice was cold and cruel and foreign to his own ears. “How does it feel to be beaten like some worthless dog? Not so much fun on that end of the beating, is it?”_

_“Please kill me, Dean,” Sam begged, the words mangled by his injured mouth. “Please just kill me.” He slumped forward, unable to hold himself up any longer. Dean jerked him furiously back up to his knees._

_“Hell no, Sammy. You’re not getting out that easy.” He pulled Sam up and slung him against the restaurant bar top. This was entertainment. Sam’s body could take an enormous amount of punishment, and the being inside Dean was determined to enjoy every second of it. He pummeled Sam in the gut and torso, and the real Dean could not stop him. The real Dean could only crouch on his cage floor, heaving and retching with pain and despair._

_Blood, bright red and frothy, began to bubble in the corners of Sam’s mouth. A broken rib must have punctured one of his lungs. The being realized with frustration that his playtime was drawing to an end._

_“I thought you could do better, Sammy. I thought for sure we could go a few more rounds.” At least Sam was still conscious, the being thought. He definitely wanted him to see the blade coming, wanted Sam to feel the scythe as it bit into his neck._

_“No, no…” Dean’s voice broke. He could do nothing but repeat the word over and over again. God help him, he could not bear to see his own hands killing his brother._

Dean woke suddenly to find that he was holding Julie exactly as she had fallen asleep, spooned into the curve of his body. But she was not languid and relaxed like she had been when she fell asleep. Now her body was rigid, her limbs jerking and twitching. That must have been what had mercifully awakened him. Within seconds, she was thrashing and flailing like she had been when they found her in the middle of a nightmare.

“Julie, wake up,” Dean shook her, gently at first and then harder when it didn’t seem to have any affect. “Sweetheart, wake up.”

She woke with a cry and sat up, looking around desperately at Dean. Her eyes were wild and haunted.

“It’s happening again,” she wailed, when Dean sat up next to her. “Someone else is dead.”


	18. Something Wicked

Norris, Tennessee 1931

 

Mrs. Caughron and Aunt Alice could hear the voices from outside even above Ellie’s anguished moans and panting breath. Their eyes met, and both could see the dread in the other’s gaze. Those men had come to Ellie and Jonas’ house just like Granny said they would. Had Jonas and Miriam made their escape? Would anyone be able to protect those left behind?

Ellie squeezed her aunt’s hand fiercely, her teeth gritted against another scream that tried to force its way out of her body.

“It’s okay, sweetness,” Aunt Alice murmured, stroking Ellie’s sweat-dampened forehead. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Ellie didn’t seem to have even heard the voices, all of her attention focused on the arduous task of bringing a new life into the world. Aunt Alice felt it only reasonable to lie to her. It would do no good to upset her now, there was no way they could flee.

One voice suddenly rang out above the others. It was Jonas. He had not left.

“Lord Almighty.” Mrs. Caughron said in a choked whisper, her eyes growing wide as they heard the unmistakable sounds of scuffling and punches and the shrill, nervous whinny of a horse. Then came a terrified scream which could only have been Miriam.

“I have to go find the boys,” Aunt Alice cried. “I’m sorry…” She pushed past the quilt that divided the loft into rooms, and Mrs. Caughron heard her clambering down the ladder.

“Momma…momma, was that Miriam scream…?” Ellie’s question was cut off before she could even finish. A pain seized her with such ferocity that no other thought was possible. She gasped for breath, the excruciating pressure in her lower body feeling as though it were going to rip her in two. Ellie screamed, unable to endure the suffering any longer. And then, miraculously, the pain was past.

“It’s a boy, honey. You have a baby boy.” Mrs. Caughron said as she lifted the squirming newborn and wrapped him quickly in a blanket. She rubbed the little back briskly with one hand while the other hand wiped his nose and mouth and eyes. Within seconds, he gave a small but sturdy cry, and she lay him on Ellie’s chest. In that instant, the pain was forgotten.

“Isaac William Bledsoe,” Ellie whispered, her gaze taking in every feature of the precious face. Her finger traced across one tiny cheek, the skin so soft that she could barely feel it beneath her fingertip. In response to her touch, the tiny eyelids blinked open ever so briefly. He did have Miriam’s eyes. Ellie smiled joyfully at her mother. Mrs. Caughron smiled back tremulously, tears streaming down her face. The afterbirth had come, but she could see that Ellie’s bleeding had not slowed, was not stopping. She needed the doctor right away, the doctor that could only be reached past the mob outside, past whatever evil was being perpetrated that night. A heavy foreboding lay on Mrs. Caughron’s heart _– let her enjoy these few moments, Lord. Let her hold her little boy for just a while –_

 The sound of the gunshot blast tore through the night. Ellie jerked as though she, herself, had been shot. She seemed to become aware of her surroundings again for the first time since she had gone into labor. The horror of their situation came back to her in a sudden rush. They heard Aunt Alice cry out, and then there was more yelling and more gunfire. Ellie looked around wildly.

“What’s happening, momma? Where’s Jonas? Where’s Jonas, momma? Where’s Miriam?” Mrs. Caughron just patted her daughter’s hand and brushed the damp hair back from her face. There was really no point in trying to do anything else.

“He’s the finest baby boy I’ve ever seen,” she was saying to Ellie as the hanging quilt was suddenly jerked aside. Several men dragged Mrs. Caughron away as Ellie stared at them, too weak to do anything more than wrap her arms protectively around the tiny newborn. She heard them pulling her mother down from the loft. Then one of the remaining two men moved to the end of the bed, throwing aside the cover that Mrs. Caughron had so carefully tucked around Ellie’s legs. Raising his lantern, the man studied for a moment before turning to his partner.

“They’s a lot of blood. She ain’t even gonna be alive here much longer. Come on, let’s leave ‘em.” Another shotgun blast sounded in the yard as they disappeared. Ellie could hear little more after that. Just the lowest murmuring of voices coming from outside, but no one else came into the loft. She was so tired. A deep lethargy seemed to be tugging at her, and Ellie suspected that she had very little time left. Her hand curled gently around the tiny head which lay on her chest.

A sudden piercing light and an explosive wave shocked her from her reverie. Glass shattered in the windows below, and Ellie could hear dishes and pots falling to the ground as the whole cabin shook. Somehow, she pulled herself to a sitting position and then to the edge of the bed. She lay the baby on the mattress beside her. Deprived of the warm embrace surrounding him, he began to squirm and fuss.

“I’ll be back, Little Bit,” she crooned softly. “I promise I’ll be back.”

Getting to her feet, getting down from the loft – Ellie had never worked harder for anything in her life. There was no pain, only a weariness that felt like a physical weight pressing down on her. She stumbled to the door of the cabin and held a lantern aloft.

The misty drizzle of rain, and the pale gray light of the approaching dawn, gave the scene a dreamlike quality. As she made her way slowly across the yard towards the barn, Ellie kept expecting that she would awaken. Each crumpled body that she passed only served to increase the sense of unreality. Her uncle, her aunt and cousins, her mother, her father. It couldn’t be real. It was just a nightmare. The feeling in her body, as though the very ground were pulling her down, was proof that it wasn’t real. Granny Caughron. Jonas. Miriam, her Little Rabbit.

Just beyond them stood a workbench that someone had brought from the barn; it had an old wooden bowl and candles on it, the candles smoldering and stuttering in the misty rain. And something else lay there also.

Ellie stopped, swaying where she stood, a memory seizing her. She had been ten years old when Granny Caughron had discovered her and her cousin Betsy with Granny’s spell books. They knew, of course, that they were not allowed to touch Granny’s books. She kept them locked in a chest in the far corner of her bedroom, wedged in by a chest of drawers and a wardrobe. They were not even allowed to touch the chest, but somehow they knew that day that she had left it unlocked.

With the unerring sense of children looking for mischief, Ellie and Betsy had discovered the open chest while Granny dozed by the fire. They had then coaxed and goaded one another until they progressed to opening the chest, touching the books, and finally lifting out several of the ancient, moldy texts. When Granny Caughron found them, Betsy had a large pile of books that she was attempting to stack from smallest to largest. Ellie, though, was deeply engrossed in the pages of a small, dark manuscript.

Granny had switched them both until whelps covered their legs. Then, as they cried and wailed, she made them warm vanilla milk and set them at the table to drink it, their crying slowing and running down to occasional sniffles. Finally, she supervised the return of all the spell books to their place, stressing again the rule that they were never, ever to touch her book chest. Betsy left for home after that, but Ellie hung back. She had seen something in that book that she had to ask about.

“Granny, can I ask you something?” Ellie began tentatively. A look crossed the old woman’s face that surprised Ellie. Even as a child she could understand it. Granny Caughron was frightened. She sat in her rocking chair and motioned for Ellie to sit on the stool beside her. She held Ellie’s hand and stroked her hair for a moment.

“What did you want to ask?” Granny Caughron finally spoke.

“There was a picture in the book, Granny. A picture of so many people, a whole town of people. And they were all dead.” Ellie paused and then barely whispered her question. “Why would anyone want a spell that would kill so many people, Granny?”

Granny Caughron rocked and stroked Ellie’s hair and didn’t answer for a very long time.

 “I can’t really explain why, child, but I hope you never have to know the answer.”

The memory faded, and Ellie again saw her husband and her little girl. Jonas and Miriam lay side by side. Someone had placed them there together. Just as someone had made the gaping wound in Jonas’ chest and the thin, curving slash across Miriam’s throat. On the workbench stood the bowl and candles, and a small, dark manuscript. And Ellie knew what she would do next.


	19. Lonnie Coleman's Story

Norris, Tennessee 2016

Sam met them at the motel room door and handed both Dean and Julie cups of coffee that he had purchased from the convenience store down the road. Julie nodded numbly and wrapped her hands around the warm Styrofoam cup, sinking into the motel room chair, staring silently ahead. Dean took the offered cup and motioned his head towards the parking lot.

“We’ll be right back,” he said to Julie as Sam stepped outside, but she did not seem to hear him.

“She doesn’t look so good,” Sam said as he and Dean leaned on the Impala, both sipping their scalding hot, tasteless coffee.

“Yeah, she’s been crying pretty hard, I think she’s worn out,” Dean replied, a scowl of concern on his face.

“So the dream was just like it was before?” Sam asked.

“Yep – just the same. The police scanner…?”

“Nothing’s come through yet. Maybe it’s just some kind of remnant dream?” Sam posited without much conviction.

“When have we ever been that lucky?” Dean said, his voice weary. “It’s like she had this whole wall built up to keep herself from feeling the deaths, then we came along and tore it down and told her everything was over. This one hurt her bad…”

Sam couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew how much Dean hated seeing someone in pain, especially when he felt like he was partially responsible.

“What the hell, man?” Dean burst out. “We broke the spell. There’s a damn lake there now to prove it!”

“There’s got to be something else, another spell or curse,” Sam said. “I already called Rowena. She’s on her way to meet us.”

Dean took a deep breath and then released a groan of frustration. He couldn’t believe they were having to ask Rowena to come help them.

“That had to be a sucky phone call. What’d she say?”

“Well yeah, it started out pretty sucky. But eventually she was the one that suggested coming here. Apparently, she’s intrigued by the idea of a double spell.”

“Awesome. At least someone’s having a good time.”

The sun was just beginning to edge its way over the horizon, casting a pale light over the parking lot. Dean and Sam continued to lean on the Impala, both hating their powerlessness, neither having any great epiphanies about what their next step might be.

“Do we try talking to Stephen Millsaps again?” Sam finally suggested. “Maybe he came across another witch in his research?”

“Another witch, sure…” Dean said. “You mean one that’s not currently buried under about 200 feet of water?”

Sam let that pass with no reply. They both headed back into the room to check on Julie and found her curled in the chair, asleep.

“Good,” Dean said, “At least she can get some rest. More than I can say for myself.” He gave Sam a quick report of his own dream, knowing that Sam would ask. Neither wanted to dwell on it. The memories of the actual event, Dean nearly killing Sam, were a little too fresh still.

“I think I’m going to get a shower and…” Dean had just started when his phone rang. The ring tone indicated it was someone calling his FBI number; he swiped the call receive icon.

“Agent Murtaugh.” Dean answered. He listened silently for a moment and then grimaced at Sam. “I see. What time was that, Dr. Devaraux? Okay, thank you. Let me know if you find out any more.”

Dean hung up the phone and shook his head.

“Well, that was our victim already at the coroner, already had the lung fluid analyzed – same as all the others. Apparently, Sheriff Kincaid is enforcing radio silence on any police calls for mysterious deaths.”

“Trying not to give the Bledsoe curse fans any more to go on, I guess.” Sam said. “Get showered, I’m going to call Stephen Millsaps anyway.”

Sam’s call woke the young historian, and it was several groggy minutes before he could be made to understand that one of the FBI agents from yesterday was trying to find more information on the White Pine community. Finally, he managed a response.

“I can give you a name, but I have to tell you I was never able to get anything much out of the man. See, I found this newspaper blurb from 1931 about the group that was supposed to handle the White Pine evacuation. You know, the TVA representatives that would be there and the county executives.” Sam could hear Stephen tapping on his computer now. “Of course, they’re all long since dead. But here’s the interesting part, Lonnie Coleman was nine years old in 1931,” Stephen’s voice cadence changed to indicate that he was reading now from the newspaper article on the computer screen.  “An exciting opportunity for young Leonard (Lonnie) Coleman as he accompanies his grandfather, the county Registrar of Deeds, to see the official business being transacted.”

“And Lonnie Coleman is still alive?” Sam asked incredulously.

“Alive and currently in an assisted-living facility in Knoxville. Still in his right mind, for the most part,” Stephen answered. “When I interviewed him, he was more than happy to talk about his childhood and the history of the area – pretty much anything, unless I got too close to White Pine. Then all of a sudden he’d get sort of confused and foggy. I swear he was putting on, but you can’t really accuse a 94-year-old man of faking forgetfulness.”

 

******************************

 

Less than two hours later, Sam and Dean walked into the Autumn Care Assisted Living home in Knoxville. They had dropped Julie at the Ogle’s house, explaining that Julie had another dream and another death had been confirmed. Thankfully, Isaac was still asleep as Julie and Anne Ogle sat on the couch, distraught. Jim Ogle just looked stunned.

“But – the lake, the flooding…” he stammered.

“We think there must be a second spell at work, Mr. Ogle,” Sam explained. “We’re going to Knoxville to interview someone we hope can help. And we have a sort of expert who’ll be in town tomorrow. She’ll probably need to see you all.” He and Dean had given Julie the briefest possible description of Rowena.

“You just have to see her to believe her,” Dean had said. “But she can maybe help. She gave us the information to break the first spell.” He wasn’t sure which hurt more – the troubled look on Julie’s face, or the way a tiny spark of hope had flared in her eyes when Dean told her they were still trying – _son of a bitch – she still believes you can do something. How are you going to look at her again if you can’t?_

“Agents Riggs and Murtaugh,” Sam was saying. “FBI. We called about seeing Mr. Leonard Coleman.” The young aid led them to a common room where the morning sun was shining in on a small collection of elderly patients.

“Mr. Coleman’s right here,” she said, introducing them to a dapper looking gentleman. The other residents they had encountered were all attired in various forms of housedresses or loungewear, but not Mr. Coleman. He was wearing slacks and a button-down shirt, his dress shoes laced up neatly for the day. After the introductions, the aid left them alone, though she would clearly have liked to stay. Up to this point, none of the residents had ever done anything as interesting as receiving a visit from the FBI.

“Mr. Coleman…” Dean began.

“Call me Lonnie,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly strong for a man of his age. “When I hear ‘Mr. Coleman’, it just makes me feel old.” He chuckled at his own joke, and Sam and Dean both smiled slightly. He seemed like quite an entertaining guy – it was a shame they were going to have to go directly into “hard-boiled FBI agent” mode.

“Alright then, Lonnie,” Dean said. “I’m just going to cut to the chase here. We need to know anything you can tell us about White Pine.”

A shadow passed across the old man’s face.

“I don’t know…White Pine, you say?” The voice was suddenly weaker.

“Lonnie, we don’t have time for games,” Dean said, brusquely. “Young guy, Stephen, he talked to you a while back. He thinks you’re pretending to not remember anything about White Pine.”

“People are dying, Lonnie,” Sam added. “Were you in White Pine right before it was evacuated?”

The old man just stared blankly. He brought a hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes as though hoping the Winchesters were a vision that he could wipe away. But when he lowered his hand, they were still there.

“More people dying?” Lonnie asked, his voice quavering. Dean and Sam both noted his use of the word ‘more’.

“So you know something about the deaths? You know something about the Bledsoe curse?” Sam asked. Lonnie brought his hands together in his lap, grasping them to calm the tremoring that had suddenly come over him.

“That was years ago, boys. And I’ve never spoken a word to anyone about it,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

“Then it’s time to talk about it, Lonnie,” Dean replied. “We think we can stop the deaths, but you have to tell us everything. What do you know about the Bledsoe curse?”

As it turned out, Lonnie knew a lot.

 

**************************

             

Back in 1931, he had been thrilled at the opportunity to accompany his grandfather on official business. Lonnie already loved the offices where his grandfather worked, the file cabinets full of important papers, the way his grandfather knew everything about what was being bought and sold in the county. And nothing had ever been bigger than knowing about the property that was being bought to make way for the dam that the federal government was going to build.

Lonnie still remembered how important he had felt when his grandfather let him hold one of the enormous ledger books on their way to White Pine that morning. A small convoy of vehicles had left before sunrise – county commissioners, TVA personnel, the sheriff and a couple of deputies just to demonstrate the authority of the group, not that anyone thought they would be needed.

“We’ll get in a couple of hours of work, and then I believe the ladies of the community are planning to have lunch for us,” Lonnie’s grandfather had said. “There’ll probably be caramel cake.” He winked down at Lonnie, knowing that caramel cake was his favorite dessert in the world.

The sun was just beginning to edge over the treetops when the convoy pulled into White Pine. They parked the cars and trucks in the yard next to the community building, all of the men stretching and groaning as they got out of the vehicles. Lonnie could feel it immediately, his skin tingling as though an electric shock had just passed through him. He looked up quickly at his grandfather to find him frowning. All of the men were frowning now. Frowning and turning in circles to survey the little town center. No one looked frightened, exactly, but Lonnie could feel the suppressed tension.

“You reckon where everyone’s at?” The sheriff said. The sound of his words seemed to reverberate uncomfortably in the still air, and no one offered any reply. They walked up the steps and into the community building en masse, Lonnie staying as close to his grandfather as possible. Inside, they found three people.

They had apparently been preparing for the arrival of the officials, setting up a door on sawhorses to serve as a large table, moving chairs and benches around to create smaller groupings. At some point, though, the preparation had come to a sudden stop. One man was collapsed on top of the table. The other two were lying on the floor, slumped against a chair or a bench. All were dead.

“They just looked like they’d fallen asleep,” Lonnie said to Dean and Sam. “Like they’d just been overcome right there on the spot and dozed off.”

After that, the group quickly checked the rest of the buildings in the tiny community. Everywhere they went, they found the dead. Many of them were still in their beds, looking as though they had just overslept on this bright morning. One of the men said that perhaps they should be worried about some contagion or poison, but looking at the victims it was impossible to believe that they had died from anything like that. It appeared as though everyone had been struck dead at exactly the same instant.

The decision was made that they would break into smaller groups and check the outlying properties. The sheriff spread a surveyor’s map on the hood of his truck and pointed out where each group should go and which homesteads they should check. Lonnie rode out between his grandfather and the sheriff. The men’s silence put his nerves even more on edge.

Each house and each cabin they checked was exactly the same. The dead were found in beds and in barns, in outbuildings and in cradles. Man and woman, young and old, every single person at every single dwelling was dead. 

“It wasn’t ‘til we came to the Bledsoe place that we found anything different. But what we found there was awful.”

It was past noon when they topped the ridge and rode down into the little vale where the Bledsoe property lay. They could see the bodies in the yard as they approached, bodies that were not lying peacefully as though they had fallen asleep. The bodies there lay in attitudes of pain and terror. They had all died violent deaths.

Eight bodies lay in front of the cabin, most of them shot dead. The sheriff noted that Granny Caughron looked as though she might have had a heart attack, and then he saw where Jonas and Miriam lay.

“God help us,” the sheriff murmured when he saw Miriam’s body. Lonnie felt his grandfather, whose side he had stayed right against throughout their investigations, clutch at Lonnie’s shoulder as though he might faint. And then they heard it. The tiniest mewling cry.

“We went inside then,” Lonnie said, his gaze unfocused as though he was seeing it again before his eyes. “There was a trail of blood up the stoop and into the cabin. Bloody footprints leading to and from the ladder against the wall.”

Every instinct in their bodies wanted to run from the cabin, but then they heard the cry again and could tell that it was coming from the cabin’s loft. Neither Lonnie’s grandfather nor the sheriff, both older and comfortably large town dwellers, were in any shape to be climbing the ladder.

“The sheriff asked me if I could climb up into the loft, but my granddaddy wouldn’t have it. I said I was going to go, though. You could tell that it was a baby crying, a tiny baby. I knew I was the only one that could go get it.” There was a touch of pride in the old man’s voice as he recounted the bravery of his younger self.

Lonnie found two people in the loft. Ellie Bledsoe was lying on the floor beside the bed, and he presumed that she was dead. And on the bed lay a tiny creature wrapped in blankets. Even Lonnie, naïve young boy that he was at the time, could see that the baby must have just been born, and the blood that stained the floor and the mattress and the long gown that the woman wore must have been from the childbirth.

“Lonnie, are you okay? What did you find, son?” His grandfather called up to the loft in a loud whisper.

“It’s a woman and a baby, granddaddy. The woman’s dead, but the baby’s alive.”

Lonnie cautiously walked towards the bed, trying not to step in any blood, and then jumped as though snake bit when the woman stirred ever so slightly.

“Take him,” she pleaded, looking at Lonnie through half-closed eyes. “Take him, please. His name is Isaac William.” Lonnie was almost too scared to move, but the woman said nothing more. After a moment, her eyes drifted shut and her head fell back to the floor.

Not until the tiny cry sounded once more did Lonnie move again, approaching the bed. The baby was nested in blankets, but its thin chest was bare and something lay on top of it. Lonnie bent over slowly to see what it was. It was in the shape of a cross, red and wet, and he realized that it was covered in blood. Reflexively, Lonnie brushed the loathsome thing off of the baby’s chest.

As soon as the cross touched the mattress, flames roared up all along the perimeter of the bedding. Terrified, Lonnie snatched the baby into his arms and ran back towards the loft opening. He sat on the edge of the opening and dropped the bundle to his grandfather, then he jumped into the sheriff’s waiting arms. The last thing Lonnie saw was the bed engulfed in flames, the vile object laying atop it seeming to glow in the fire.

 

****************************

 

“So they just covered everythin’ up?” Jim Ogle’s voice was incredulous. “They didn’t look for other family to report the deaths to or nothin’?”

“Nope, tried to cover up the whole thing,” Dean responded. “That’s why Lonnie Coleman didn’t want to talk. He’d been keeping that secret since he was nine years old.” He and Sam were back at the Ogle’s house explaining what they had learned from interviewing Lonnie Coleman.

Work crews had been brought up from Knoxville and even Chattanooga to bury all of the bodies. The funds that would have been spent to buy all of the White Pine property had instead been diverted to pay those men silence-buying wages and to pay for headstones shipped from Oklahoma.

“Lonnie said even those men weren’t allowed at the Bledsoe place, though. Only the men who had been part of the original group were allowed there,” Sam said. “They cleaned up everything themselves, and wrapped all of the bodies in cloths before they took them to the graveyard.”

“But you can’t hide something that big,” Anne Ogle said. “You just can’t.”

“They did a pretty good job,” Dean said. “The only thing left was this idea of the Bledsoe curse. Somehow it got out that the deaths there had been different. Sam and I figure that someone from White Pine cast the first spell to stop the flooding.”

“The little girl,” Julie barely whispered. “Is that why her throat was slit?”

“We think so,” Sam answered. “Blood for the first spell.”

“And then it seems like the mother, Ellie Bledsoe, cast the curse that killed everyone else,” Dean continued. “Rowena can probably tell us more, but that makes the most sense with what Lonnie told us.”

“Well, that still don’t explain what our family’s got to do with all this,” Jim said. “That evil – that ain’t no fault of ours. Why’s my baby girl got to suffer now?” Julie lay a comforting hand on her father’s arm. The older man looked like he might break down in tears at any moment, and his wife was already crying.

“Actually, Lonnie Coleman gave us the answer to that question, too,” Sam said. Dean cleared his throat in agitation. Lonnie had given them an explanation, but it would be little comfort to the distraught family sitting here with them now. “They took the baby and gave it to a couple that Lonnie’s grandfather knew in Norris. They hadn’t been able to have any children of their own, so they didn’t ask too many questions when they were gifted with a baby boy.”

“They kept the name that Lonnie told them – Isaac William,” Dean picked up the story. “Jack and Irene Ogle adopted the baby and called him Isaac William Ogle – your father,” nodding to Jim, “and your grandfather,” he finished, looking at Julie.


	20. The Curse

With the help of sleeping pills, administered at several intervals throughout the night, Dean managed to get a few hours of restless sleep.  His dreams were vague and unpleasant, like shadowy nightmares that leave the sleeper inexplicably disturbed, but at least they weren’t vivid scenes of rage and cruelty. Julie slept fitfully, too. Her dreams had never occurred two nights in a row, but, as Dean had sensed, she was much more shaken now that her fledgling hope of conquering them had been dashed. Everyone, Sam and Dean and the Ogles, gathered at Julie’s house the next morning to await Rowena.

“How sad is it that Rowena’s our last hope?” Dean groused to Sam under his breath.

“Oh yeah, we’re going to pay for this one,” Sam responded gloomily.

She arrived mid-morning, transported from the bus station by the solitary Uber driver in the county.  Clad in emerald green velvet, her fiery red hair loose around her shoulders, she greeted Julie, the Ogles, and Isaac in cheery, warm Scottish tones. Then, she immediately pulled Dean and Sam aside for a fiercely whispered conversation. Julie and the Ogles were unable to hear what the conversation was about, but it involved a great deal of scowling on the part of the Winchesters and a great deal of gesturing from Rowena. After reaching some sort of agreement – or Julie suspected it was more like a truce – she returned to the others with a pleasant smile and requested a “wee nip of tea” while she was brought up to speed concerning the “bit of a dustup” they were dealing with. 

The difficulty was, since Rowena’s arrival, Isaac adamantly refused to leave his mother’s side. Even when his grandmother offered to take him out for ice cream, Isaac would not be budged. He simply clung to Julie’s leg and stared at Rowena suspiciously.

“Hey,” Dean whispered rather loudly to Sam, “the kid’s got good instincts.” Rowena shot him a withering look.

Eventually, they convinced Isaac to sit beside his mother on the couch and put in earplugs to watch a movie on his tablet. Once Isaac was happily oblivious to the adults, Sam provided as succinct a version of the story as was possible, including everything they had learned from Lonnie Coleman the day before. Dean and Julie and the Ogles occasionally added details. Then Dean explained his and Sam’s theory as to what two spells had been cast, and who had cast each spell.

“It is a fascinating tale,” Rowena said, “though I do understand that present company might not appreciate the narrative aspects.” She nodded gravely at Julie and the Ogles.

“Here now, darlin’,” she continued as she moved to sit on the coffee table directly in front of Julie, “let me have a nice long look at you.”

Julie sat uncomfortably still as Rowena looked her up and down. When the witch shut her eyes and laid her hand on Julie’s knee, Julie gave Dean a half-frightened, half-questioning glance.

“It’s okay,” he mouthed to her, fairly certain that it was. For several moments, Rowena did not move. Then, with a tiny frown puckering her brow, she lifted her hand and hovered it in front of Julie. Her brow smoothed, and she opened her eyes.

“Well, now, I think I’ve discovered most of what I need to know, love,” Rowena’s voice was chipper as she sat back, folding her hands in her lap. “Absolutely first rate spell work, and such dedication. Truly exceptional technique that you just rarely find nowadays. But do listen to me chatterin’ on. I expect you wish to break the curse?”

“Rowena, what the hell…”

“I…uh…yes…”

Dean and Julie both spoke at the same time, and the Ogles and Sam were opening their mouths when Rowena held her hand up.

“Yes, well, just bein’ certain,” she said with a smile and a mischievous shrug. “That bein’ the case, there are two ways to break a curse. The first would be to kill the witch. Since this witch is already dead, though, we would burn the witch’s bones.”

She turned to look at Sam and Dean as though they were errant, and not very bright, little boys.

“Sadly, that is not possible in this case since the _Winn_ -chesters have buried the bones under a lake.”

“We were following your directions, Rowena,” Sam pointed out. Dean just glowered at her.

“Oh of course, I suppose it’s my fault that you two bumbleheads didn’t understand that you were dealin’ with two spells. I suppose I should have saved you then from your own colossal stupidity. I should have realized…”

“Just tell us the second way, Rowena,” Dean snapped.

“The second way would be to kill the curse bearer.”

The reaction in the room was instantaneous. Mrs. Ogle clasped her hands to her chest and then to her mouth to stifle her sobs. Mr. Ogle sat up ramrod straight in his chair, shaking his head violently. Dean and Sam were both shaking their heads, too. Only Julie remained calm. She drew herself up with a determined set to her shoulders.

“If that’s what it takes…”

“No, just no!” Dean barked, holding his arm out in front of Julie as though protecting her from attack. Mr. Ogle moved to sit beside Julie and Isaac on the couch, putting himself in a protective position also. Isaac looked up, recalled from his movie by the new uneasiness in the room.

“You heard her,” Julie whispered, her hand stroking Isaac’s head to relax him, pleading with both her father and Dean. “She can help us do it right. It won’t be like Aunt Eliza. If I die, the curse can die, too.”

“No one is going to die…” Dean began, his voice harsh, but Rowena interrupted him.

“Oh, lassie, you misunderstand me,” she said, speaking to Julie. “Your death wouldn’t be the way to stop this curse.” The tension in the room eased immediately, Mrs. Ogle taking deep breaths as Mr. Ogle sank back into the couch. Only Sam and Dean remained alert. They knew Rowena too well – she was playing some kind of game with them.

“But you said…” Julie began.

“The death of the curse bearer, yes dearie, that’s how the curse may be broken. But you’re not the curse bearer, love,” Rowena said. “Your wee son is.”

 

**********************

 

“There’s got to be something else!” Dean was pacing up and down the length of Julie’s kitchen, one hand roughing through his hair as it often did when he was particularly agitated. Sam leaned against the countertop, frowning down at his feet, his arms crossed. Only Rowena looked unconcerned, seated haughtily at the kitchen table where Dean and Sam had deposited her.

The moment she had stated that Isaac was the curse bearer, they had jumped to their feet and frog-marched her out of the room. Now, they both turned to glare at her, awaiting some reply to Dean’s statement.

“Well?” Dean prompted impatiently.

“Well, what?” Rowena snapped in response. “Had I all the information from the beginning, then we might not be in this predicament. But the Winchesters have managed to create a complete debacle once again. I simply told you how the curse might be broken, and yet you I treat me…”

“You know we can’t reach the bones,” Sam interrupted her roughly. “And we’re not going to let Isaac be killed.”

“Of course I have no intention of harmin’ that darlin’ boy! I only meant to explain why the death of that lovely young lady would be of no help whatsoever under the circumstances. What sort of monster do you take me for? I wouldn’t dream…”

“You can drop the act, Rowena. No one’s buying it,” Sam said. Dean had stopped pacing. His hands were now shoved into his jeans pockets to keep them from wrapping around the witch’s throat like they were itching to do.

“Rowena…” Dean’s voice was harsh, “do not tell me there is no other way. There is some way. And you are going to find it.”

“There might be something…but it’s so impractical that it’s not even worth considerin’…” she began. Dean and Sam both looked at her with the faintest glimmer of hope. “And there’s the same problem as the bones. It would require access to the cabin, and I’m sure it’s buried underwater just like…”

“It ain’t underwater.” All three of them turned to stare at Jim Ogle who had come to stand in the kitchen doorway.

“It ain’t underwater,” he repeated. “I drove down to take a look after ya’ll told about how your car was fine and it wasn’t flooded. I went back down there this morning. It still ain’t flooded.”

“How does the cabin help us, Rowena?” Dean asked, grasping at their first sign of a chance. Julie came to stand beside her father, Isaac having been forcibly removed to go home with his grandmother, listening intently as Rowena began explaining the curse and the one possibility she saw of ending it.

A revenge curse, she called it, three-sided – the victim, the curse bearer, and the conduit. When Ellie Bledsoe had worked her spell, she had used the crucifix.

“I daresay that crucifix had been a talisman in the first spell, too. Most likely soaked in the young girl’s blood – the blood of the victim,” Rowena explained.  “Then the mother, the conduit, would have added her own blood.”

“Lonnie’s story made it sound like there was plenty of that,” Dean interjected.

“Precisely,” Rowena agreed. “The young mother no doubt realized that she was dying, and so she could be only a conduit. She had to have a curse bearer, the wee babe.”

“But why?” Julie’s voice shook. “Why would a mother do that to her child?”

“Vengeance,” Rowena said, as though the answer was obvious. “They killed her young daughter, her husband…it seems they had killed her whole family. Of course she wished to destroy them.” Julie, obviously unsatisfied with Rowena’s answer, turned beseechingly to Dean.

“She’d just had a baby and then found her whole family murdered,” he said. “She wasn’t really a witch, not like her grandmother. I think maybe she didn’t know. Maybe she didn’t understand how the curse would keep going.”

“Why did it keep going?” Jim asked. “I reckon she only wanted to hurt that community. How come it didn’t stop after that?”

Rowena explained that the nature of the curse, whether Ellie Bledsoe had realized it or not, was to continue in perpetuity. In fact, it was growing stronger with each iteration. At some point it would be strong enough again to destroy an entire community.

“I know the dreams are very difficult for you, dearie,” she said to Julie, “but really they’re only a sort of warm-up act, if you will. The electric storm, the tornado – those are the main event. And they will grow worse and more deadly.”

“Do you know what’s triggering it?” Sam asked.

“Well, when I realized that the small lad was the curse bearer, I began to think that…”

“A birthday…” Sam interrupted in sudden realization, to Rowena’s obvious annoyance. “When was Isaac’s birthday?”

“I had the first dream the night he turned five,” Julie said, her eyes growing large. “And I would have turned five in 1986.”

“And Eliza was born in 1954, so she would have turned five in 1959,” Jim confirmed.

“So the kid turns five, and, boom, there’s the curse?” asked Dean.

“Eloquent and illuminating as always, Dean, but yes,” Rowena answered. “I would guess that Ellie Bledsoe’s daughter had just turned five when she was sacrificed for the spell.” Julie flinched at the word ‘sacrificed’, but Rowena didn’t seem to notice. “Her mother took the horrible event that had befallen her daughter – the ‘curse’ if you will – and transferred it to her infant son. Now, each time the first child of the family reaches the age of five, they become the curse bearer, and the revenge scenario plays out once again.”

“And the mother is always the conduit,” Dean said.

“Taking all of the pain, just like Ellie did,” Jim added. “That’s why the dreams moved from Eliza to Anne, ain’t it? Julie had the curse, and Anne was her mother after Eliza died.” Rowena nodded, and Julie leaned into her father’s side, laying her head against his as he squeezed her shoulders. Dean felt his anger rising again, as it had the first time he heard the family’s story. Anger at the fear and pain that had driven decisions made decades ago. Anger at the evil that was still haunting an innocent family.

“Get to the part where we can actually do something to stop this, Rowena,” he growled.

“The possibility, which I would like to note I have already stated is practically no possibility at all, is that the curse might be reversed back to the talisman and then destroyed.” Dean’s brow furrowed and his eyes rolled up, trying to puzzle out the gist of what she had just said.

“We don’t have the talisman, Rowena. We burned the crucifix,” Sam pointed out.

“Yes, but it could be recreated, Samuel. A wooden cross, carved with the correct symbols. I believe you do have photographs,” Rowena said. “We would simply need blood of a victim and blood of the conduit to soak it in. And it need not be enough blood to cause death,” she added as she saw Dean and Sam start to protest. “Although I daresay that would be one more problem with the entire scheme,” she finished under her breath.

“And why the cabin?” Sam pressed on, choosing to ignore Rowena’s last comment.

“There is obviously an intimate connection between the curse and the cabin,” Rowena said. “For one thing, the first spell concerned the location of the community, of which the cabin was a part. More importantly, though, the effects of removing the crucifix from the cabin indicate to me a…”

“The crucifix doesn’t want to leave the cabin, so we have to be at the cabin to destroy it?” This time Rowena turned deliberately to glare at Dean for his crude description of her mystical theories.

“Yes, you great plaid oaf,” she ground out between clenched teeth. “That object is soaked in fear and rage, and it exists just awaiting its opportunity to exact revenge once again. But it wants to be in the cabin to continue its work, and it will insist on being there.” Rowena smiled maliciously at Dean. “I assume you are not enjoying its terrorizing methods of persuasion.”

“Fine,” Sam interjected quickly, stepping forward a little between Dean and Rowena. “We can recreate the crucifix, and get the blood, and get to the cabin – why do you say it’s practically impossible?”

“Because, Samuel!” Rowena threw her hands up in exasperation. “You are asking me to reverse a decades old curse without knowing the precise curse that was used, based on assumptions about what blood was used and how it was used, assumptions about…”

“Can you do it?” Julie asked the question in a small voice. “Can you take this horrible thing away from my son?” Rowena turned to her, and her expression seemed to be one of true sympathy. She rose from her chair and moved to stand in front of Julie, drawing herself up regally.

 “I said it was practically impossible, love. Luckily for you, I am practically unstoppable.”


	21. Where It All Began

“What sort of test is the FBI lab planning on running?” Dr. Devaraux asked the question with just a touch of defensiveness. What did the FBI think it was going to be able to discover that he had not?

“No clue,” Dean said, shaking his head as though he agreed that the FBI was behaving presumptuously. “They just tell us what to get, and we get it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Devaraux, we appreciate your cooperation,” Sam said, taking the vials of blood that the coroner held out. They were labeled with the name of the latest victim of the mysterious deaths.

“Let me know if you find anything,” Dr. Devaraux called as Sam and Dean left.

“Yeah, sorry dude,” Dean commented just loud enough for Sam to hear. “No way you’re ever going to know the real cause of death.”

“Alright, we’ve got blood of the victim,” Sam said as soon as they were back in the Impala.

“Let’s go get blood of the conduit and the curse bearer,” Dean said grimly. “I sure hope Rowena knows what the hell she’s talking about.”

“I know,” Sam agreed. “You have to admit, we’re not exactly making it easy for her.”

There had been a dispute over who would be present when Rowena attempted to break the curse. She had insisted that the curse bearer and the conduit should be there just as they had been when the curse had originated. Dean and Sam had insisted just as strongly that it was too dangerous for Julie and Isaac to be anywhere near the cabin when Rowena worked her magic. Julie had offered her presence as long as Isaac did not have to be involved, but she didn’t get very far.

“You’re a park ranger. That’s your job,” Dean said adamantly. “This is OUR job.” He pointed to himself and Sam. “Let us do our job.”

Mr. Ogle had sided with Dean, of course. When Julie looked as though she might protest, he had threatened to call Mrs. Ogle and that ended the discussion. Dean and Sam would stand in for Julie and Isaac. Rowena was less than thrilled with the decision.

“Let me see if I understand,” Rowena said, drawing out each word as though it carried with it the weight of impossible expectations. “I will need to do a substitutionary spell – prior to doing a spell – to hopefully destroy a decades old curse. Oh don’t fuss, Rowena darlin’, magic is ever so simple…”

The Winchesters left her to her grumbling. It was what they had come to expect from the witch, the price of relying on her for assistance.

 “How are we going to get Isaac’s blood?” Sam asked as they neared Julie’s house once more. “I know we only need a couple of drops for the substitution spell, but still…”

“I don’t like it either,” Dean agreed, but after a moment a smile began to spread across his face. “I’m not as hard-hearted as I was when you were little, Sammy.” Sam looked puzzled. “Oh come on, man. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that time Dad and Bobby dredged up that old hoodoo ritual that was supposed to make vampire-killing bullets.”

For a moment longer Sam looked uncomprehending, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall what Dean was referring to, then his face cleared and he began to laugh even as he was shaking his head.

“You mean that time Dad had you making ‘vampire bullets’ while he hunted down the nest?”  
“Yeah, I had to make the bullets, and each one was supposed to have a drop of virgin blood on it. So Dad told me just to stick my finger and…”

“But you talked me into giving blood instead,” Sam said, “You said your blood wouldn’t count because Amy Blankenship French-kissed you after gym class.” Dean had held Sam’s finger, started a three-count, and then jabbed him with a pin on the count of two.

“You were so mad,” Dean laughed. “Especially when the bullets didn’t even work.”

“You were a jerk sometimes,” Sam responded, but he was grinning.

“Hey, just so you know – I was only about halfway messing with you on that one. I was twelve, dude. I didn’t have the whole concept nailed down yet, and Amy Blankenship was pretty intense.”

But they did not have to get Isaac’s blood after all. As soon as they entered the house, Julie proudly presented them with a contacts case.

“It was all I could find in the medicine cabinet,” she said with a bit of concern. “Isaac fell off his scooter and scratched his arm against the guinea pig cage, so I just grabbed this and collected a few drops before I patched him up. Will that work?” Sam unscrewed the lid of the case, and he and Dean looked at what must have been about three drops of blood pooled in the little basin.

“That should be perfect,” Dean assured her. “Looks like you went ahead and donated, too.” He pointed to Julie’s gauze bandaged forearm.

“Once I started collecting blood, it just seemed easier to get the whole thing over with,” Julie said. “Cutting my own arm was a little tougher than I thought it would be, though.”

“I hope you never have to get used to it, sweetheart,” Dean responded. Sam discreetly moved on into the kitchen to deliver the vials to Rowena. “I hope you can forget everything about this curse.”

Julie leaned into him, laying her head on his shoulder.

 “I do want to forget it,” she said. “But I don’t want to forget everything.”

“Alright, then,” Dean said with a roguish smile, “let me suggest some things you can remember.” He leaned down, and whispered in her ear until Julie was blushing. They broke apart when Mr. Ogle, Sam, and Rowena entered the room. Sam and Mr. Ogle pretended not to have noticed anything, but Rowena’s eyes lit up with mischief.

Mr. Ogle had finished carving the replacement crucifix, relying on Sam’s photographs for guidance. Rowena had mixed the blood the Winchesters had brought from the coroner’s office with Julie’s blood, and was soaking the new talisman in it.

 “I believe I have everything,” she declared. “We may as well get on with our Mission Impossible, as it were. Of course, that is if you two are finished with your goodbyes. I do hate to interrupt disgusting displays of…”

 “Come on,” Dean snapped. He was scowling, but he was also blushing a little. His scowl deepened when he saw his brother duck his head to hide the smile on his face. “Let’s just go….son of a bitch...” 

 

***************************

 

It was early evening when they arrived at the cabin, shadows growing long as the sun sank lower in the sky. There was a feeling in the air that was different than the two previous times that Dean and Sam had been there. A fearfulness, a subdued hostility, as though the cabin knew that they were there to expose long-held secrets. The secrets had festered for so many years, so many decades, poisoning the cabin, but now it seemed to close in on itself protectively, guarding its wounds.

The first spells, the substitutionary spells, Rowena performed in the open ground level room of the cabin. Dean insisted that he should be the one taking Isaac’s place, as he considered the curse bearer to be the potentially more dangerous position.

“That’s not a good idea,” Sam argued. “With the nightmares, you’re already a sort of conduit for the curse. Stick with that.”

“Believe me, I do hate to say this, but I agree with Samuel,” Rowena put in with a sour look on her face as though the words pained her. “Listen to your moose this time, Dean.”

“I still think you should be the girl, Sammy, but fine…”

 Rowena burned the spell ingredients in two small metal bowls, adding a drop of Isaac’s or Julie’s blood to each. The ingredients sparked up in glimmering blue flame and then died out immediately. She ground the remains with a pestle and then placed a smear of ashes on first Sam’s and then Dean’s forehead.

 “There – a stupid, overgrown little boy, and the ugliest woman I have ever had the misfortune of creating,” Rowena said with a flourish of her arms and a small bow. The Winchesters did not respond to her comments.

The final portion of the spell work would be done in the loft where the original curse had been cast. They climbed up the rickety steps on the wall and then stood blinking in the dim light. Rowena looked at her surroundings with distaste – bird droppings, and cobwebs, and the shreds of quilt hanging from the ceiling.

“Why must I constantly find myself in such vulgar surroundings,” she lamented. “I was meant for refined and palatial environs.” Again, Dean and Sam were both silent, refusing to let Rowena get a rise out of them. Sam folded out a small portable workbench that he had carried into the loft, and Dean handed Rowena the case containing her supplies.

 “The crucifix was shoved over here behind the bed,” he said leading Rowena to the far corner of the loft. “And that’s where Ellie Bledsoe and the baby were when Lonnie Coleman found them.”

For several long minutes after that, Rowena was occupied arranging and lighting candles and preparing and mixing spell ingredients. The Winchesters stood silent throughout her preparations, not wanting to distract her when their lives might soon depend on her precision.

When everything was arranged and mixed to her satisfaction, Rowena opened the case once more and removed a flat metal canister. Inside lay the blood-soaked crucifix. She grasped the thin ribbon threaded through its base, and lifted it in the air. It swung slowly over the spell mixture, blood dripping from it, and then she lay the crucifix in the bowl.

Rowena took a long, steadying breath. Obviously they had come to some crucial point in the proceedings. Dean and Sam shot concerned glances at each other, but remained silent. Rowena lit a match and dropped it into the mixture. Bright green flames sprang up immediately as she held her palms above the bowl, eyes closed, and began chanting the words of a spell.

The cabin groaned and shuddered as though struck by a fierce wind. Sam and Dean both looked around anxiously, but Rowena made no indication that she had felt the tremor. She simply continued to chant as the noise from the cabin grew louder. The walls shook, buffeted by some unseen force, growing in intensity. The floor trembled and creaked. Dean placed a hand against the roof to steady himself while Sam grasped one of the rafters. The ancient structure rocked and swayed, the groaning sound rising to a keening wail.

Then Rowena’s eyes snapped open and the flames died away. The cabin quieted.

“What the hell was that?” Dean asked.

“That was merely the first step, darlin’,” Rowena answered. “Our talisman is prepared to hold the curse. Now for the difficult part. I have to move the curse from the curse bearer back to the talisman. Lay over there, Samuel. And for complete authenticity, I believe you should be naked.”

“Rowena!” Sam and Dean had both reached the end of their patience.

 “The talisman must touch bare skin,” she responded, unfazed, smiling innocently at their glares. “At the very least, a topless Samuel will be required.”

“Rowena, I swear…” Dean started, but Sam interrupted him.

“Hold on Dean, I don’t think she’s kidding about the bare skin part.” Sam pulled off his flannel shirt. “Anyway, I like this shirt. It’s one of the few that doesn’t have bloodstains.”

He stuffed the flannel in his pack and then removed his t-shirt, putting it away also. He turned to Rowena, bare-chested, his arms spread wide.

“There,” he said. “Happy?”

“Not nearly as happy as I should be in the presence of a half-naked young man, dearie, but as happy as I ever am when the _Winn_ -chesters are involved.”

Ignoring her again, Sam stepped over the side of the bedstead and carefully stretched out atop the ropes. By the time he was laid out completely, most of the rope was either broken or sagging to the floor. He shifted a bit, trying to find a comfortable way to lay on the cords digging into his back.

“Stop fidgetin’ like a wee bairn,” Rowena fussed at him. “It’s not supposed to feel like silk sheets.” She lay the crucifix on his chest. The fire had turned it a dark red, like the one they had originally found, but it was still dripping wet. The wood was warm against Sam’s chest, as was the thick blood that oozed down over his ribcage. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to throw the noxious object off of his body. _Just when I think this job can’t get any weirder –_

“Now then, your part.” Rowena turned to Dean. “I think it would be a good idea for you to have your hand on Samuel’s head.”

“You think? You don’t really know?” Dean asked, uneasily.

“No, Dean, I don’t know for sure,” Rowena snapped. “I distinctly remember saying that I would have to make assumptions…”

 “Okay, okay, just asking.” Dean crouched beside the bedstead and placed his palm on the top of Sam’s head.

“And since you are not an actual witch with actual powers, I will provide that portion.” Rowena came to stand next to Dean and lay her hand on his shoulder.

“Well if this isn’t just about the dumbest…” Dean started to say, but Rowena spoke over him.

“Shut up, you stupid arse, and listen to the rest of my instruction.,  Repeat the words ‘vindicta finis’ and do not stop. Do you understand?”

 “Vindicta finis – got it. Just start saying it now?”

“No, I’d like to wait until Christmas if that’s alright – yes now!”

 Dean began the chant.

 “Vindicta finis – vindicta finis – vindicta finis – “

 The cabin shuddered and bucked like an enraged bull trying to throw a rider off its back. Dean and Sam looked at each other, wide eyed.

“Vindicta finis – vindicta fin…” Dean’s voice stuttered to a halt as wind moaned through the holes in the cabin’s chinking. The chimney stones rattled and clanked loudly, and one of the rafters above them cracked and split.

“Keep going!” Rowena demanded.

“Vindicta finis – vindicta finis – vindicta finis – “

There was a tremendous screeching, tearing noise as huge chunks of the roof were suddenly ripped away from the cabin. The wind whipped into the loft then like some great wild creature.

“Vindicta finis – vindicta finis – vindicta finis – “

Sam could feel the crucifix against his chest growing warmer and warmer, and he looked down to see it glowing with that same strange green light as when he and Dean had tried to destroy it. Not only was the talisman glowing, his chest was glowing, too. He could feel a strange sensation there, something gathering, pushing. It was more a feeling of pressure than actual pain, but Sam had a sudden, uncomfortable flashback to the scene from _Alien_ where the baby alien had burst through the man’s chest cavity. But in the next instant, the pressure was gone, and the crucifix was glowing even brighter, almost blinding in its intensity.

“I think it’s working!” Sam had to yell to make himself heard over the groaning of the cabin and the roaring of the wind. Dean nodded at him to indicate that he understood, but he did not pause in his chanting. He looked back over his shoulder to see Rowena standing with one arm held aloft. Her eyes were closed, her hair lashed wildly by the wind.

“Vindicta finis – vindicta finis – vindicta finis – “

The chimney began to crumble. Stones and chunks of mortar fell into the loft, showering them with dust and soot. Then the whole top of the chimney began to buckle, and Dean and Sam could only watch in horror to see if it would fall in on top of them. It swayed and fell to the outside of the cabin with a tremendous crash. Sam turned towards Dean to share a look of relief.

Suddenly, his face froze, stricken,  and his body arched. Sam’s eyes rolled back until almost nothing but the whites were visible, and his body began to jerk convulsively. The crucifix clung to his chest as if it were glued in place, the bright green glow pulsing.

“Vindicta finis – vindicta fin – Sam! Sammy!” Dean clutched his brother’s face.

“Don’t stop!” Rowena screamed. “You have to finish it, it’s the only help for him!”

“Vindicta finis – vindicta finis – dammit, come on Sammy – vindicta finis – “

The roaring of the wind and the noise from the cabin had grown so loud that Dean could not even hear his own voice anymore. The chant just continued automatically, interspersed with pleas for a response from his brother. Sam’s body lurched and shuddered as though he were being electrocuted. Dean could feel the floor beneath them beginning to splinter and he expected it to fall at any second. The glow from the crucifix intensified into a starburst of radiance, and Dean was forced to look away, shielding his eyes from the light.

And then it was over. As suddenly as it had begun, everything went still and silent. Dean looked back quickly at his brother, blinking to clear his eyesight of the afterglow left by the talisman’s blaze. Sam lay motionless, the crucifix crumbling into ashes on his chest.

“Sammy! Sammy!” Dean frantically felt for a pulse at the base of his brother’s throat. “Sam! Come on, man…come on…Rowena, do something!”

“There’s nothing more I can do,” she replied.

“Sam, come on. Can you hear me? Sammy!” Dean shook his brother by the shoulders.

Sam jolted awake, staring around in wild confusion.

“Hey, you’re alright…you’re alright, man,” Dean said, breaking into a smile of relief. “Hey, look at me, you’re good.” Sam turned his face in his brother’s direction, but he was not looking at Dean. Instead, he was staring, transfixed, at something on the other side of the loft. Dean and Rowena both turned to follow his gaze.

They too saw the ghostly figures. A man and a woman. A little girl. The woman was holding an infant, and the man and woman were smiling, his arm around her waist. The little girl stood between them, grinning happily, leaning into the man’s side with her hand tucked into the woman’s free hand. The infant kicked a chubby foot, and the other three figures all turned to look proudly.

And then they were gone. A gentle wind blew through the loft, and the figures were swept away like a mist.

“Well, Winchesters, I believe we’ve put the Bledsoe family to rest,” Rowena said in a soft voice. “Job well done, if I do say so myself.”


	22. How We Were

The rising sun was just over the horizon when Dean pointed the Impala north on I-75 and began their journey home. Classic rock was rolling out of the speakers, as always, but the volume was low. There was a comfortable silence between the car’s inhabitants. The job had been successfully completed, and for a while the brothers could set aside the other chaos in the world and savor a small victory. They rode that way for a couple of hours before they stopped at a diner outside of Lexington for breakfast.

“Did you ever tell Julie everything that happened at the cabin?” Sam asked as they waited for their food.

When Dean and Sam and Rowena had left the cabin the night they had broken the curse, they had called Julie on their way to the bus station.

 “It’s over. I promise, it’s really over this time,” Dean had reported, and she had believed him. They had dropped Rowena at the bus station and then returned to their motel room where Dean had slept for over twelve straight hours. It was the best sleep he had had in years he reported to Sam when he finally woke.

Julie had come to the room to thank them and invite them to lunch at the one Mexican restaurant in town, but Sam had been too busy doing the case write-up to be able to join them. Julie had smiled at him gratefully for the gesture and then kissed him on the cheek.

“Thank you,” she had told him earnestly.

After spending the afternoon together, Dean had accompanied Julie to the Ogle’s house to gather Isaac and his things and officially move him home. There, he had received an embarrassing amount of gratitude from Mr. and Mrs. Ogle. At Isaac’s insistence, he had then joined the little boy and his mother for pizza.

“Take care of your mom, buddy,” Dean had instructed as he dropped them back at their house. “She’s really special, so remember how lucky you are.” Isaac had accepted the advice with a serious demeanor and nodded gravely at him.

“I will, Mr. Dean.”

 Julie had been teary-eyed as he drove away, but her smile had been peaceful.

 “I didn’t tell her much,” Dean answered his brother. “I told her about the spirits or the echoes or whatever the hell they were. I figured she’d appreciate that part.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah, she liked that, the family reunited and whatever. And I told her about the cabin basically collapsing right after we got out. I figured I could skip most of the other details.”

“Like how it almost collapsed right on top of us?”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a shrug. “Plus, you know, stuff like how it felt like I was in the middle of a tornado hollering some stupid Latin words while my brother’s seizing and a crazy witch is screaming in my ear.”

Sam nodded in agreement.

“No one really wants to know that much detail.”

“No, they do not,” Dean said. “Great – thanks.” The waitress set breakfast in front of them and refilled coffee cups.

“I was just thinking,” Dean said, chewing on a piece of bacon. “We should have driven into Gatlinburg while we were that close. I bet you don’t even remember Dad taking us there.”

“Not really, no.”

“We were headed from down around Jacksonville back up into Kentucky somewhere and Dad actually detoured to go through Gatlinburg.” Dean smiled faintly at the memory. “You were probably only about six or seven. We played this awesome mini-golf on the side of a hill. I think it was called…”

“Hillbilly Golf,” Sam interrupted him excitedly. “We rode a little cart on a track to the top of the hill, right?”

 “Yeah, exactly,” Dean said. “So you do remember that?”

 “I got a hole in one, and Dad said ‘good job’. It was pretty memorable.”

They ate silently for a while, and then Sam looked at his brother quizzically.

“What’s up with all the memory lane stuff recently?” he asked. “First it was the skunk story, and then those vampire bullets. I don’t mind, just wondering if there’s a particular reason.”

Dean hesitated before answering.

 “I guess I’m just thinking about Mom a lot. And then I think of things I want to tell her about us – about our lives.”

“Those are the things you want to tell her?” Sam asked incredulously. “I mean, the mini-golf thing's okay. That actually sounds like a normal family. But the skunk, and walking five miles back to some crap motel? Making bullets when you’re twelve years-old and using your brother’s blood? Seriously?”

“What?” Dean said with a shrug. “They’re great stories.”

Sam’s eyebrows went up even further in skepticism.

“Okay, fine, maybe they're not great, but they’re real stories. They’re our life, how we really were. I don’t know, I just want Mom to know about…” he trailed off.

“I guess I get it,” Sam said. “I’m just not sure that Mom wants to know.”

“Yeah...doesn’t keep me from wanting to tell her.”


End file.
